The Towers of Lionys
by wryter501
Summary: By Uther's command, Arthur must choose a wife and marry before the end of the year. Their first visit is to Lionys, but danger seems to have followed them, or anticipated their arrival. Will it be love in the air for Arthur (for Merlin?) - or just arrows? No slash, canon pairings. Sequel to Vortigern's Tower/The More Things Change.
1. MisDirection

**A/N: I'll go ahead and give you this notice: I'm going to be doing something with this sequel I haven't done so far, which is, to write from female pov. The second part of this story, (whether it grows into its own part 3 or just an end to Lionys) I will most likely revert back to Merlin&Arthur pov… we'll see.**

**Also a new genre heading: romance. Arthur&Merlin will take something of a back seat to developing other relationships, at least initially… **

**The Towers of Lionys**

**Chapter 1: MisDirection**

"I can see them opening the city gate… My lady, they're here. He's here!" Enid rushed in from the balcony overlooking the city, cheeks flushed with excitement.

She only shifted her position on the overstuffed cushion and turned a page of her book. Trying with all her might to keep contained the turmoil of emotions the older girl's words had stirred up in her again.

The idea of arranged marriage was an old one. As a child she'd paid it little mind, daydreaming about a handsome prince falling irrevocably in love with her at first sight, though the most important thing about him at that time was the white stallion he'd give her rides on. A few years later, she was convinced that she'd probably meet a dashing knight, noble if penniless, while she was charging about the countryside on quests of her own.

As she'd entered her teen years, her daydreams had coalesced and focused on one young knight, one of her brother's companions, now the captain of her father's guard. Though he had always been too correct and polite to show her anything beyond solicitous deference, and she'd never dared breathe his name specifically even to Enid, she never ceased hoping she could someday turn his heart and his head, and together they could persuade her father that their marriage was meant to be. That she need not consider a stranger. That Lancelot would be the best husband she could ever hope for.

The missive they'd received from Camelot that winter was a surprise. She'd turned down two offers already since she'd come of age – one from one of her father's cousins, and one from a northern knight who'd already buried two wives – without second thought or a moment's concern. But – a prince.

Her father, Lord de Gransse, would not pressure her into anything she truly didn't want, but she knew her duty. At least allow the visit, Father had suggested. It doesn't mean he's going to want you, Elyan had added, at once teasing and comforting.

"No need to get excited yet," she told Enid, turning another page though she hadn't read a single word on the last one. "It'll take them a quarter of an hour to ride here from the gate. Unless they were galloping?"

The older girl made a face at the joke and went to throw open the wardrobe, as eager for the visit, the first meeting, as if she were the candidate for bride. "But a _prince_, my lady," she gushed. "They say that Prince Arthur is very handsome."

"Hm," she said, refusing to agree, or to raise her eyes from the page she wasn't reading. "And arrogant and self-centered and vain, no doubt." And no one would ever be as good as her knight in shining armor, as sweet and gentle and caring… if only she could get him to look at _her_.

"And noble and courteous and fair," her maid teased. "You never know – this man could be your _husband_."

Her heart did something totally against the laws of anatomy, and she wanted to rush to the balcony and hang over the railing for the first look at him. Prince Arthur of Camelot. Prospective groom.

The scary thing was, it was possible. She couldn't deny it, and that made her feel giddy. The great IF. If he was decent, tolerable.

If Lancelot continued oblivious to her – she couldn't propose to him, after all, or suggest the union to her father without the knight's knowledge and agreement – and how long might she spend persuading both men, one to give her and one to take her?

It made her feel hollow inside, anxious and lost, the enormity of the decision that stared her in the face – the rest of her life at stake – happiness and changes and… family.

"Do you have a preference?" Enid asked, and she looked up, drawing her attention back to the practicalities of the moment.

The red velvet gown, highly suggestive of the Camelot colors, was hung over the open door of the wardrobe, obscuring the mirror, while the older girl held the plum-colored silk up to her own body for her mistress to decide between them. Enid was statuesque, tall and slender yet curvy, her hair and coloring almost as dark as Guinevere's own; not for the first time she thought of how perfect that dress would look on her maid's frame.

A thought struck her suddenly, so daring and so brilliant that she let the book fall and pushed to her feet. "I have an idea," she declared.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The thyme and the hawk-weed in particular were wilting. They needed sunlight; all the plants did.

_She_ did.

She stood barefoot on her rooftop, stretching in the warmth of the early afternoon, closing her eyes and tipping her face up to the blue of the sky. It was the first day of which could be said decisively, _spring_.

This afternoon, she decided, she'd bring all the pots and trays she could carry on her own up to the flat roof where she kept her garden. The heavier ones she wouldn't risk trying to manhandle up the narrow, steep stairway on the back of the house; another day or so wouldn't make much difference, just until Gwaine came home. He could erect the canvas frame at the same time, that she used to shield the delicate plants from stronger winds, torrential rains, or harsher sunlight as the season progressed into summer.

And then – then she could begin to plan her day-journey into the forest to find and transplant the herbs and seedlings that she needed to supplement the ones that survived the winter inside her home.

The air smelled crisp and new. It filled her with a restless exhilarating energy, but at the same time, she wanted nothing more than to sit still and soak in the life of the new season. Breathe deep and let the sun caress her skin. Spring made her love her home a little more; it also made her want to run away eagerly, seeing new things, new places, new people, new…

She smiled at the contradiction in her heart, as she dropped down onto the low parapet formed by the wall rising higher than the level of the roof, a two-foot ledge than encompassed the whole house, as it did for nearly every other building in Lionys. Her home was in the second row, technically, behind those that fronted the main street of Lionys, but in her case, the older couple that owned the street-front shop-and-quarters had no inclination to use their roof, so she was allowed the entirety of it for her garden.

Her attention was caught by the commotion at the city gates, nearly two hundred paces away. The guards were opening them… usually travelers made use of the smaller side door, still large enough for a single horse to pass through, each one by one. The doors were opened for visitors of status, or larger convoys.

Her body lazy but her mind active – she blamed the weather, _gorgeous_ spring day – she sat on the low parapet and watched the activity at the gate resolve into a procession of several riders and a cart.

The main street was wide enough for two wagons to pass each other while leaving enough room for folks to walk on either side, dividing the city into East and West Halves as it ran straight from the city gate to the many-towered palace at the south end of the city. Each Half was further divided by crooked alleys and winding lanes, some buildings sharing walls, as hers did with the house in front, some built so close as to make jumping from one roof to the next not only possible, but irresistible, if one were a young boy or a criminal.

The new arrivals were still too far away for her to see properly, but she could tell that the foremost rider wore chainmail, and a voluminous red cloak. That suggested Camelot to her – a diplomatic envoy, perhaps.

As the little cavalcade approached at a leisurely walk, she watched the citizens of Lionys part before them, drawing to the side out of respect and curiosity, until there was quite a crowd to either side of the street, and a widening path was created for them. Some folks waited, watching, while others even strolled alongside the mounted men, but very few that she could see ignored the strangers to conduct business as usual.

They were closer now, and she could see that the two men who rode abreast behind the single knight in front were more plainly dressed. Not a glitter of chainmail, not a fall of crimson from their shoulders, as was the case with the two riders behind them, and ahead of the cart, which was driven by a servant – she guessed – in nondescript brown.

Those two, though. She watched them with the same idle curiosity as the rest of the townsfolk. Knights would wear armor, and livery. Noblemen sent for negotiations would dress more formally. Servants would be in the cart or behind it.

The one on the left, as she looked at them, was fair-haired and rode with the easy grace of a natural horseman, in spite of his plain attire. To her that suggested a measure of wealth, the leisure time to pursue riding for its own sake, or for other recreation. Or training, she supposed, but then why not dress as the other knights?

His companion to the right was as dark as he was fair, and _he_ rode… with the unceasing watchfulness of a bodyguard, even as they seemed to be exchanging conversation.

They were less than fifty paces away when it happened.

She wasn't paying much attention to the gawking pedestrians, content in her vague puzzling of their identities, when a swift, violent gesture from the base of her row of buildings, even with the riders, caught her eye. It was the sort of movement that made her think confusedly of stocks and rotten vegetables – but no one would throw things at visitors –

The black-haired man twisted so violently in his saddle he spooked his own mount, throwing his hands out heedless of his reins or balance – which he kept quite easily – and the light of a dozen torches _splashed_ against the air mere feet from the blonde man, obscuring them for a moment. The blonde man drew the sword at his hip in a grim, practiced motion, almost simultaneous with the three knights, trying to control their horses and seek out the source of the light.

The _attack_? She glanced down from her rooftop perch to see the brown-clad arm retracted into an alley.

The black-haired man had kicked free of his stirrups and leaped down, sprinting after the assailant, ignoring whatever his light-haired companion shouted after him, lost to her in the babble and cry of the startled crowd. He shoved through the panicked, confused people, took a quick glance down the alley, and disappeared.

She looked back at the blonde man – clearly the leader, by the way the knights looked to him – he sat back in his saddle, the set of his shoulders unhappy but resigned. He exchanged a few words with the foremost rider, shoved his sword back into its sheath with an air of dissatisfaction, then made a signal to indicate they should proceed toward the palace at the far end of the street. All four looked considerably more tense, the red-caped three closed in around the plainly-dressed fourth, while the cart driver hunched nervously on his seat.

Standing from her seat on the wall, she hurried to the back of the roof.

From there she could see several blocks of the alleys that intersected at the corner of her house. She looked down the row parallel to the main street, north toward the gate, and saw nothing. Not that she expected to. The surprise of witnessing what could only have been a sorcerer's attempt to assassinate one or all of the strangers was quite likely the most exciting thing that had happened to her in years. She was plain and ordinary; people like her didn't actually _see_ –

She turned her head and saw him, a hooded fleeing figure dashing into sight at an intersection several blocks back from the street. He paused, his head turned toward her as if he wanted to risk returning to the street for another try at the passing procession, then he twisted and darted further way, at right angles to his original course, before ducking down the next row to the left, clearly deciding to try to lose the pursuit.

He was familiar, she thought, adding astonishment to surprise. She wasn't the sort of person to know _assassins_, but _who_ –

The black-haired man skidded into view, halting at the same intersection as his quarry. And in the instant that he hesitated to check the options of direction, she _saw_ him.

Humble, by the plain cut of his clothes.

Confident, to follow a sorcerer willing to attack knights, which also meant…

Magic. Not an amateur, obviously, as he had protected his companion adequately, foiling the attempt on his life.

Determined to succeed in his chase, which to her said he cared a great deal about his job, the pay or the person, and because of _Humble_, she inferred it wasn't the pay, and so he was also…

Loyal.

He lifted his head fractionally, and though she couldn't be sure, at that distance, whether he was looking at her or not, she made a life-changing decision in half a heartbeat.

She put out her hand, fingers straight and held together horizontally, shoving smartly forward before bending her fingers to the left.

The man you seek turned, then turned again.

Instantly the black-haired man understood her signal for directions, instantly trusted her. He whirled and took off running again.

Freya took several breaths, trying to calm her racing heartbeat and the inclination of her breathing to little hysterical gasps of disbelief. Well. She'd certainly have a story to tell Gwaine when he got home.

She scanned the West Half of the city slowly, but could not see where the attacker – so familiar, if she could only think of how she knew him, who he was – someone she'd felt surprise to label sorcerer and assassin, but otherwise… no, it was gone. There were no further indications of magic performed, though she watched for several moments, but a such a man would probably chose to shake a pursuer in the twisted warren of the city, rather than risk an open confrontation. She thought ruefully that the stranger had little chance of catching the attacker.

She returned to the front of the roof, but the three knights had hustled the fourth – the most important, in spite of his distinct lack of finery – down the street. All she could see now was the back of the cart, the party's baggage protected with a canvas cloth.

A deep breath of the spring air helped to calm her, as she watched the mood of the people settle, the object of curious gossip fading. And soon, like a school of minnows in a brook after the ripples of a tossed pebble have disappeared, the townspeople were back to business as usual – errands, deliveries, shop-tending, ware-hawking.

She smiled down at them, and it occurred to her that she should bring the daisies to the roof first.

…..*…..

She knew she had to give it a fair shot. She owed that much to her father and her brother, both of whom had worked and sometimes fought, to provide for her family, for her, the absolute best for the present and future, both. She owed it to Prince Arthur, honestly, for extending the offer in the first place, and for making the journey.

She owed it to herself, also. That was harder to explain, even in her own mind, but… she didn't want to look back on this choice in twenty years and _wonder_.

It made her feel self-conscious, knowing that he'd come to look her over as well, as a future bride. Like a filly in a pen. Discuss her pedigree, analyze her conformation, put her through her paces. Stare at her so long and so hard she was too befuddled to learn anything about _him_.

Well, maybe she could figure a way around _that_, at least.

"It's not lying," she said, to silence Enid's objections, as she fit the tiny pearl buttons into tiny tight buttonholes, between the older girl's shoulder-blades. Enid, who'd done these buttons up Gwen's back before, had her hands busy at the back of her waist, buttoning the bottom of the row.

"He's going to be angry," Enid predicted plaintively. "I've never had a prince angry with me before."

"Well, then, at least we'll know that about him, won't we?" Gwen said persuasively. "We won't just get company manners, we'll see what he's like if he loses his temper or how he deals with offended dignity."

"What if this makes him decide against you?" Enid said, turning though the back of the plum silk dress gaped open. "It will be my fault if you're never queen."

"I never wanted to be queen," Gwen said cheerfully, circling the older girl to finish the buttons. "And if something like this makes him decide against me, then he's not the sort of man I want. In any case, it's better if he knows right away what sort of bride I'll be – honestly, Enid, it's in my best interests to be as naughty as possible."

"My lady!" Enid gasped, her warm brown eyes filled with horror.

"Oh, Enid, don't worry. It'll be a minor misunderstanding, a small joke to ease the tension." Enid mumbled something about tension that she thought was probably disagreement, as she pushed the last tiny pearl through its buttonhole, then prodded her maid across to the dressing table. "Sit down, please, so I can reach you," she ordered playfully, loosening Enid's long dark hair from its braid as her maid obeyed, perching uncomfortably on the cushioned stool. "It's been a while since I did _your_ hair."

"What's Lord Lionel going to say?" Enid said.

"He'll say, _Guinevere_," she lowered her voice in mimicry of her father's disapproving tone, picking up her hairbrush. "Come on, we never do anything _fun_ anymore."

She found the ribbon that matched the plum silk and began to wind it through the maid's glossy hair, twisting it up loosely onto her head to leave her neck bare, then arranging the tendrils that escaped by her face. A knock sounded on the door, and Gwen put a stop to Enid's reaction by pushing down on her shoulder.

"I'll get it," she told the older girl.

Opening the door only partially, to keep the sight of her maid in one of her best gowns hidden, she startled a look of faint surprise in the pair of warm brown eyes that met her own, giving her heart a flip. But where Elyan might have scolded her for remaining in one of her oldest outfits and leaving her hair in the same twist at the back of her neck that Enid had put it in before breakfast – and her curls did have a tendency to escape their bindings sooner or later – Lancelot would never question her choice of dress or the state of her hair. It wasn't his place.

She wished momentarily that she'd worn the plum silk and the ribbon in _her_ hair, to surprise a different look in the captain's eyes.

"My lady," he said. He'd called her Guinevere twice in her life – once when she was eight and had fractured her wrist tumbling from the cherry tree in the orchard, and once when she was fifteen. After she'd kissed him by ambush. "Our guests from Camelot are approaching and will arrive momentarily. Lord Lionel wishes your presence in the grand hall to greet His Highness."

No. That wouldn't do at all. "Tell my father I would prefer to receive the prince in the solar," Gwen said, "in half an hour, if it pleases him?"  
"But my lady," Lancelot argued gently, "The introductions…"

"If I end up married to the man," she said – and was disappointed to see only warm concern, not sparking jealousy, in his eyes – "I'm sure we need not insist on formalities. I am a lady, after all, and have a right to some harmless caprice, on occasion."

"Harmless, on this occasion?" Lancelot said, with gentle inoffensive humor. "Very well, my lady. Half an hour, in the solar. Unless your father insists."

He wouldn't, though, Lord Lionel was not that kind of man, or father. She nodded as he bowed his head and turned to stride away. She leaned out into the corridor to watch him, the broad shoulders, the straight muscular frame, the quiet confidence of his gait, the soft slight wave at the end of his dark brown hair. He didn't look back, and she sighed, turning back to the room to see if Enid was ready.

Nope. No matter what she managed to notice or learn of Prince Arthur while his eyes were on Enid, she knew there was no way he could ever measure up to Lancelot.

The solar was a room of life and breath in a palace of cool stone. The fountain kept the air moist, the windows admitted and magnified the warmth of the sun, and green things flourished all around, in pots and great troughs laid in the floor, on shelves and hanging in nets from the high ceiling. There was furniture scattered throughout, in cozy groupings, light comfortable pieces made of wicker padded with colorful down cushions.

It had been her mother's favorite room. Neither her father nor her brother had much use for it, not being the sort of men to enjoy sitting peacefully for long. There was of course always much to do in running a province as vast as Lionys, and they were both active men. When there was time for leisure and recreation, they took theirs out-of-doors. So the solar had become Guinevere's particular retreat, and Lionel and Elyan both knew why she came here. They would respect her request, both what she had asked and what she hadn't, and they would be granted privacy, within reason.

Enid was too nervous to sit, so she wandered, playing uncomfortably with the necklace Gwen had given her to wear. Gwen had taken her little book with her, and sat on a padded footstool below the large chair she normally used.

"This is a bad idea," Enid said, absently stripping yellowing leaves from a wash of ivy trailing from a high shelf which supported its root system. "What am I going to say to him?"  
"Say whatever you like," Gwen returned, feeling oddly more confident now than she had been since responding to the message Camelot had sent, two months ago. "Or say nothing at all. You're the lady."

"Yes, but he's the company," Enid argued, agitated. "And a _prince_! What if –"

"My lady." They were interrupted by a voice from the door, and both turned to see that it was Sir Percival, Lancelot's second in command. He was the biggest knight in Lionel's employ, a man who saw much and said little. His eyes widened in momentary astonishment, taking in the way the two girls were dressed – Enid in the plum silk and Gwen in a plain cream-colored day outfit of voluminous trousers and bodice - and positioned within the room, before his expression subsided into private amusement.

Gwen felt a tiny bit more relief. If it had been Lancelot, he might have felt it his responsibility to correct any misconception between the daughter of his lord and the visiting royalty, in spite of her wishes and the fact that his status was lower than either of theirs. Percival, however, would simply say nothing and watch events play out.

"May I present His Highness Prince Arthur of Camelot," he added, stepping to one side and bowing slightly as the prince entered the solar. "My lord, the Lady Guinevere de Gransse."

Gwen rose from the footstool as Enid turned from the ivy. Arthur was golden-haired and blue-eyed, as she'd heard, but though his expression was pleasant and he was attractive enough, he wasn't _beautiful_ like Lancelot. He stood in the doorway for a moment to cast his gaze swiftly around the room, then came forward.

He was dressed simply, for a member of the royalty, in plain dark trousers and a wine-colored shirt with a neat well-tailored vest of dark brown leather over it. They'd heard also, of his reputation as a warrior – he led his father's knights as Lancelot led her father's, Elyan being more involved with the administration than the protection of their lands - and his build and walk hinted at that, though he was unarmed. There was a silver ring on the first finger of his left hand, but he wore no other ornament; his hair was damp from a quick freshening-up after his travels.

"Lady Guinevere," he said, giving her a quick glance before settling his attention on Enid.

They both curtsied, and Enid managed, "My lord." A pause of excruciating awkwardness followed. Gwen watched him take in the details of Enid's figure and dress, beginning with her eyes and face, but his expression gave away none of his thoughts.

Then he offered, "You have a very beautiful room here, to enjoy while you relax." He didn't sound embarrassed or self-conscious. Or pompous.

"Oh! thank you," Enid said. _She_ was nervous. She didn't meet his eyes, and her color remained high, and she angled her body in the plum silk gown reflexively toward Gwen as if waiting to receive a cue. "Um. Would you care to… see more of the room?"

Arthur's face relaxed into a smile, and it increased his charm. "Thank you very much, I would," he said. "For a fact, I am a bit tired of sitting." Blue eyes sparkled with a hint of humor – _a joke_? Gwen thought, surprised – and she found herself responding with a smile of her own. Another quick glance to her, and Arthur offered his arm to Enid.

She blushed a little more and looked swiftly at Gwen before tucking her fingers into the crook of his elbow. Gwen fell in behind them, close enough to listen to the conversation. "You had a pleasant trip, I trust?" Enid asked him, solicitously enough, but to Gwen she both looked and sounded more stiff than was normal for her. "And met with no troubles?"

A slight hesitation. Then Arthur said blandly, "We reached Lionys without incident."

They were moving at the pace of a slow saunter; reaching the back of the room, they turned to follow the line of windows that looked out over the town. Arthur's head turned from Enid to take in the view – but it was no casually curious perusal. Gwen had to skip a little not to step on his heel, as he slowed still further.

Enid grasped a little desperately at the topic of the weather for the past week, as it had affected Lionys, and how she guessed it might have affected traveling from Camelot. Arthur murmured something agreeable every time she paused, but half his attention was not in the room.

Gwen wished she could somehow signal Enid to make a comment about the wealth and industry of Lionys, perhaps the view was making the prince consider the addition of their province to the kingdom of Camelot, as would happen if he married her. Though Elyan would inherit the title and right of governorship upon their father's death, her marriage to Arthur would put Lionys under a Pendragon king. She'd like to know if he placed the greater consideration upon her property or her person, in deciding whether to extend a proposal.

Enid stammered into a moment of silence which seemed less awkward than before, then broke it by saying, with more genuine feeling than she'd shown, "I love this view. Lionys always looks so peaceful and happy from here."

Arthur made a noise of vague concurrence, and commented, "Perhaps it is the feeling of this room which colors your perception." It was said politely enough, but could almost be construed to imply that Lionys was not peaceful and happy, although the implication seemed unintended.

She stepped up to his other side at the window, looking at his face rather than through the panes of glass, as he and Enid were. Coupled with his unusual scrutiny of the city, section by section, and that brief pause before he'd said _reached_ Lionys, without incident, it made her wonder what he hadn't said.

"My lord," she said, before she remembered that she was playing the part of Guinevere's lady's maid, not Guinevere herself. But she gained a good bit of his attention, and he did not seem the least bit offended at her addressing him, so she continued, querying softly, "Is everything all right? Did something happen?"

Enid's eyes were on his face in growing concern also; he stepped back from the window so he could see them both at once, with a look of resignation. "I apologize, my lady," he said, addressing Enid though he spoke to both of them. "The situation is being handled, and I didn't want to worry you. I'm just… used to being the one to face… problems, not to sit by while another does so."

Gwen was convinced he almost said _danger,_ instead of _problems_. Enid was nodding to accept his apology, but Gwen said bluntly, "What happened?"

He looked at her more fully, as if seeing her as a person, now, instead of just someone fulfilling a role, took in every part of her face. "On the ride in," he answered, still mostly addressing Enid, as was appropriate if she was the ranking lady in the room, "there was an altercation with a sorcerer. No one was injured, and my sorcerer followed to apprehend the one responsible."

"Oh my goodness, how awful!" Enid gasped.

A sense of responsibility and rare regret made it hard for Gwen to speak. "I am – so sorry, my lord, that such a thing would happen to you here." Who? And why? And what would he think of Lionys, then…

His eyes lingered on her. "Please don't apologize, we don't even know where this man is from, and –" again that flash of humor that eased tension and included both girls – "to be perfectly frank, it's something I've grown rather accustomed to. Merlin and I seem to attract trouble of this nature, sometimes." It was a surprisingly fair attitude, for a prince to take mere hours after his life had been threatened in a foreign city. His gaze went past them to the window again.

"Merlin?" Enid said, then, "Oh, Merlin Emrys. The sorcerer in Camelot."

"Yes," Arthur said, his lips twisting sideways as though he was holding back a wider grin.

Gwen thought, _your friend_. There was more than righteous indignation or concern that justice be dealt, there was worry in his distraction.

"I am sure Lord Lionel's knights are doing all they can," Enid said consolingly, looking past Arthur to Percival stationed at the door of the solar.

"You call your father Lord Lionel?" Arthur said curiously, extending his elbow to her once again.

The older girl lost a shade of color, but at least she didn't glance guiltily at Gwen. "Um, occasionally?" she answered, taking the prince's arm with more hesitation than previously.

As they began to circumnavigate the room once more, Enid searching for and finding the topic of the room itself for conversation – its design and creation and tending required. Gwen noticed that Arthur kept glancing down through the window, as if he expected to be able to recognize his sorcerer at that distance. Or if he feared to see some evidence of obvious magic performed somewhere in the city. It made her feel uncomfortable as well, not only the thought that a guest might be attacked with magic, but that two sorcerers might face off in the lanes or alleys.

She veered down a side passage between the fountain and a great round marble-bordered garden with a small peach tree in the center and budding bushes all around. Percival straightened slightly with the respect she was due as she approached.

"The prince was attacked in the city?" she said to him without preamble.

"Your father sent Elyan and Lancelot and Prince Arthur's senior knight with some guardsmen to search in the vicinity," Percival answered. "They said the prince's sorcerer pursued the attacker immediately."

"But that has been, what?" Gwen said, "An hour, now?" Percival inclined his head in assent, his eyes on her face showing his readiness to obey any order she might give. "I don't suppose there's anything more to be done, then, is there?" she said, mostly to herself. "Thank you, Percival – and could you please have someone let us know the minute Arthur's sorcerer returns?"

Percival bowed again. "There's no need to fear, my lady," he reminded her gently. "The wards are in place along the palace walls – whoever attacked the party from Camelot will not be able to enter here."

She nodded, only partially reassured. There was no threat to her, and of course Lord Lionel and Arthur were secure as well. But Elyan, and Lancelot… they hadn't even the defense against malevolent magic that Arthur's sorcerer would have. And Arthur was worried about his friend.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Dust and flakes of stone gritted under her bare feet as she crossed to the stair at the back of her home, and she considered that she'd have to gather new lengths of willow also, whenever she could make it out to the forest, for a new broom. Stepping over the parapet to the stair, she gave the descent the care and attention necessary to keep from slipping and bumping every block on the way down, even as familiar as she was with the short, narrow steps.

The daisies were up, tiny feathery green beginning to show in the center of the dark earth in the pots, placed on one of the weathered plank tables that formed her rooftop garden. The thyme and hawk-weed were up as well, soaking in the afternoon sunlight. Perhaps the sorrel would come back this year, that way she wouldn't have to dig another series of plants on her day in the woods, and then she'd have to dip a bucketful of water from the barrel at the corner of the building that caught the drainage of rainwater to moisten the soil of the plants that were on the roof. Oh, and the daffodils should be done today, she couldn't forget the dry bulbs she'd been saving wrapped in cloth.

As she reached the ground and put her hand against the door of the house to push it open, thinking the threshold needed sweeping also, there was a whisper of sound behind her, the soft scrape of a boot on the dirt floor of the alley.

She turned with a smile for whatever neighbor it might be, and froze, her reaction and recognition immediate. The cloaked figure loomed, eyes blazing from the depths of his hood, and she gasped his name. He'd managed to shake the black-haired man, after all, and he'd _seen her_.

"I'm very sorry, Freya," he said. "But he's too persistent. I hoped you hadn't recognized me, but…"

His arms lifted in swift menace, his body slammed hers into the doorframe. His eyes glowed golden, and then –

She woke in a small room that wasn't much larger than a closet. Windowless, and airless. There was a fat candle stuck on a dusty rotting crate with its own wax, smoking slightly as it burned. She sat up slowly, her head feeling thick and dizzy. A smell lingered, of filthy gutters and the worst of sickrooms, and though the floor was dry, she found she did not want to remain sitting on it.

Managing to gain her feet, she tried the door. There was a fraction of give in the thick planking, but it remained secure against her best efforts.

There was an ache in the pit of her stomach that first she identified as anxiety. But after a few calming breaths – she wasn't hurt, after all, and currently wasn't being threatened – it didn't ease. She ought not to be hungry, either, there had been the last of the chicken stew for a noon meal, and some dried pear… She pressed experimentally on her middle with her fingers and the ache intensified like that of a bruise. Like she'd been kicked while unconscious, but - she ran her hands quickly over ribs, sides, arms – it was only the one place, in the middle of her belly.

That teased a memory. Years ago, when she and Gwaine had been fooling around, he'd snatched her to throw her over his shoulder, his bones and hard muscles bruising the tender softness of her abdomen. She'd kicked him and beat on his back with her fists and finally her brother had been forced to put her down again.

Well. That made sense, she supposed. Thomas had used magic on her, had carried her unconscious over his shoulder, to – wherever here was. Some place she did not want to be.

An indefinable panic rose in her throat.

But she forced it down. And investigated the door to see if there was any gap she could see through, or hear through…

There were footsteps, loud careless footsteps, that had her retreating to the back of the closet-room. Scattered around the clumping footfalls was the sharper jangle of metal – keys. The noises stopped just outside the room, metal scraped, and the door opened outward.

The man was fat and coarse, his skin unpleasantly shiny where it wasn't obscured by the bristle of gray hair on head and chin. He lounged in the doorway, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood, casually perusing her from head to bare feet.

"Well," he drawled inexplicably, "you better be worth it." She took an involuntary step back. "Take off your dress," he added.

She crossed her arms, wondering if she was awake at all, and not simply caught in a nightmare. "I will not," she said, lifting her chin.

He snorted. "So you're one of _those_." He slouched forward until he was inside the room, still leaning casually on the doorframe. He left the sliver of wood dangling from the corner of his mouth and hitched his wide leather belt a little higher on his sagging paunch. "You know the name Halig?" he said.

She did. Halig was a slave-trader. But that was illegal in Lionys.

"Then you know you're not here for ransom, and I didn't buy you for my own use." He was not being sympathetic, just roughly reasonable. "Take off the dress."

Freya shook her head.

He moved swiftly for a fat man. Before she could so much as flinch, he had one hand fisted in the hair at the back of her head, and one hand clamped around her wrist so tightly she could feel her bones shift.

"I don't mind bruising you none," he said. Several of his teeth were rotting in spite of the pick, and his breath carried the stench. "Bruises don't matter much to a buyer, but the attitude…" He gave her a brutal shake, yanking her head back so far she would have lost her balance but for his grip on her arm, a grip white-hot with pain. "We'll sell you with bruises, but not the attitude," he reassured her. "How many – is up to you. Hm?" He shook her again, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out, overwhelmed by his bulk, his strength, his stench. The pain. "Be a good girl. The cooperative ones, the pretty ones, the smart ones – I can ask a higher price. That gets you a better class of owner, you see? Take off your dress."

He released her in a shove against the back wall. He'd broken the cord she used to bind her hair, and it spilled down over her shoulders.

She couldn't run. She couldn't scream, with no assurance of anyone hearing or helping, and his threat hanging so heavily in the tiny room. She could only wait for an opportunity better than this one.

Freya turned her back to him, and he snickered, but otherwise made no attempt to touch her or continue the conversation. Her right wrist was throbbing, her fingers numb and clumsy, sometimes sending little splinters of pain shooting from fingertip to elbow, but she managed to unfasten the row of buttons down the bodice of the dress, collar to belt, and peeled it off her shoulders, sliding one arm out and then the other.

Humiliation brought tears to her eyes, but she pretended it was the discomfort of her wrist. She leaned over to step out of the top of the dress without losing her balance, one foot, then the other.

She didn't want to, but she turned to face Halig, clutching her dress to the front of her. He stretched out his hand, making an impatient gesture of command for her to give him the dress. She didn't, and he stepped forward to snatch it from her anyway, tossing it over his arm.

"Nothing personal," he informed her. "The clothes is sold separately. This way, they stay clean, and I've found it makes my merchandise easier to handle –" he leered at her – "for me and the customer, both. Less likely to run, easier to retrieve if so happens. Which isn't often." He looked her over again, the thin white shift that fell mid-calf and had only inch-wide straps over her shoulders in place of sleeves. "Doesn't cost much to feed you, see, so if we have to wait out some… bruising… til I can get good money for you, it's profit for me in the end anyway. C'mon."

He reached for her and she lifted her arms defensively. He chose to grab her right forearm, through carelessness or design, and she stumbled quickly after him, doing her best to keep up. She would not cry out, she would not beg or bargain or even ask him to switch his grip to the other arm.

Down a dim stinking hallway to a larger room, smelling more strongly of damp and mold and fear. There were cages, though currently unoccupied. Two larger ones like prison cells, and a row of others not much larger than a clothes trunk, held about three feet off the ground by a sturdy shelf that formed the top of a line of storage cupboards.

"You can't," she said, raising her arm in his hand soothe pressure moved off her wrist to her forearm. "Do you know that I was kidnapped? Whatever he told you, the man who brought me here –"

"I've done business with him before," Halig said, taking little notice of her struggles or her surprise. He pulled her to the row of smaller cages and selected the one in the middle, swinging the door open. "You I never seen before. In you get."

"I have a brother," she protested, "we have some money –"

He snorted. Probably it was something he heard before, maybe a lot, maybe it didn't matter to him if she told the truth or not – she was his, and to him that was a sure thing.

She struggled then, she couldn't help it. Not even a dog would be put in a kennel that small. He merely tossed her dress over the top of the row of cages and used both hands to stuff her unceremoniously into the opening. The back of her head banged on the edge of the top of the cage, and in the second of blinking away the disorienting sting, he also kicked her shin sharply. She drew her leg up instinctively, and he shoved her, releasing her arms as she fell backward onto the bars that formed the floor of the cage. She tried to kick him, but he caught her ankle and forced her leg to bend, as he closed the door of the cage.

Then, with another jangle of keys, he locked it, retrieved her dress, and sauntered from the room, slamming the door again. Another key, another lock.

**A/N: So, here's chapter 1. I'm going to switch between the two girls' pov but keep things more or less chronological, kind of like a 'meanwhile back at the motel' device.**


	2. Dinner and Company

**Chapter 2: Dinner and Company**

The afternoon passed in pleasant enough conversation, although Gwen, as observer rather than participant, noticed that their guest did not seem to fully relax. At times his gaze would wander to the window, where he sat sideways on a bench, and at other times he'd straighten alertly at some stray noise that filtered in from the corridor.

Enid, bless her placid heart, didn't seem to notice, and kept the conversation light and inconsequential. Topics that were general knowledge to any citizen of Lionys, a casual trading of similarities and differences between their city and Camelot, clarification on a few innocuous rumors. Enid gently turned away any more personal questions, and Arthur seemed to accept that such topics were to be reserved for another day.

Queries of their respective families. Yes, Elyan was a few years younger than Gwen, and yes, he did resemble his father. Arthur had a younger sibling, also, his half-sister the Lady Morgana.

"However, I have not seen her for some months," he said with polite reservation. "She left Camelot last autumn to stay with her mother's side of the family, and I am not aware if she has made any plans to return, this year."

Gwen noticed a touch of melancholy, and resolved to bring the subject up again at a better time. That is, if he was still speaking to her after today.

She could not help liking the young prince. He seemed easy to talk to, he was clearly doing his best to make Enid feel comfortable, not just test and judge her as a potential mate, nor even to get to know her more deeply, so soon. He was simply easing the awkwardness from the situation for himself and the girl he thought was the Lady Guinevere, and it worked, though he was unaware of Gwen's identity.

She did begin to regret the subterfuge, not because she'd changed her mind about her reasons for it, but because of his candor and courtesy. She didn't think, from what she'd seen of him, that he would react in an angry temper when he learned the truth, but she did worry, now, that he would think her untrustworthy, that he would draw back from his attempt to be open with her. With this in mind, she watched and listened and waited for a moment when it would be opportune to correct the deliberate misconception. It never came, or else Gwen hadn't the nerve.

Enid was actually enjoying herself, to have an afternoon off from her normal routines of work, to wear an elegant gown and sit in company and conversation with an attractive prince. Not that Enid had any illusions about the outcome; she still glanced at Gwen often enough to reveal that she never forgot herself, but as Gwen had suggested, it was fun for her.

And when Percival stepped forward to clear his throat and announce the imminence of dinner, they were all startled to realize how much light had left the room as the day waned. Gwen shrugged to herself as Enid again took Arthur's elbow to be escorted to the de Gransse family dining chamber. Well, it would become clear in moments, anyway.

She followed them down hallways and stairs, and Percival drew to one side of the wide arched doorway with amusement in his eyes as he looked at her. Gwen stepped next to Enid, who had come to a halt, knowing she would not be included.

Lord Lionel and Elyan stood near the head of the table in conversation, Lancelot was on the near side of the foot with three knights dressed in ceremonial chainmail and the red cloaks of Camelot embroidered with the gold dragon emblem of the ruling family. She guessed that a sorcerer would not be wearing armor, and that he would be included in the dinner party, as one of their guests – which meant that he hadn't arrived yet. She hoped he was okay.

Arthur pressed Enid's hand gently, reading her disinclination to enter the room at that moment, acquiescing though he could not understand it. He left the two girls to join his three knights and Lancelot, though their words were not audible, as he questioned the tallest of the three, a man whose reddish-blonde hair, and beard to match, was just slightly more curly than Lancelot's though nearly the same length. The knight shook his head as he responded, and Arthur seemed disappointed.

The two de Gransse men noticed the prince, and turned simultaneously to the doorway. Gwen sighed – her reckoning was at hand, and she deserved it.

"My lady?" Enid murmured uncertainly.

"You may go," she said, and Enid bobbed an abbreviated curtsy, clearly relieved to be excused. Gwen knew she'd find the dress, ribbon, and necklace all in their place when she returned to her room after dinner.

Her father understood in one look. "Guinevere," he growled in disappointment for her behavior, and Elyan's surprise turned to understanding as well. She didn't look at Lancelot.

"Father," she said clearly, sinking into a respectful curtsy of her own. "I apologize."

Their exchange was not private. Prince Arthur turned from his men in guarded astonishment, immediately dropping the line of questioning. He approached her again, slowly, with another glance toward her father and brother to confirm his corrected assessment of her identity.

"Lady Guinevere," he said, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Yes," she said, only.

"_You're_ Guinevere."

"Most people call me Gwen," she told him, though it was somewhat beside the point.

"And that was…" He pointed through the archway, presumably after Enid.

"My maid," she confessed. "Please don't blame Enid, it was really all my fault."

Again, that twinkle of humor that seemed to connect them. "Well. I hope I didn't say anything completely inappropriate to her."

The rush of relief made her smile. He wasn't angry or offended, he was taking it as a joke on himself in good grace, or as if she had every right to set him such a test. He looked over her shoulder, then shook his head in mild disbelief; she wondered briefly whether he was disappointed to find that someone of Enid's natural beauty and stature was not a prospect.

"Sire," her father said in his deep, grave voice, "I do apologize if my daughter's actions have offended."

Arthur faced Lord Lionel. "Not at all, my lord, an apology is completely unnecessary," he said. "I understand that this situation can be – unusual."

"Come, then," Lionel said, allowing his tone to lighten. "Here in Lionys we have only one dinner custom – when the food is hot, we eat."

Their visitors chuckled, and as the men organized themselves around the table, Arthur escorted Gwen to her father's right hand, where he would have the seat of honor, with her placed next to him, across from Elyan and the senior knight from Camelot.

She leaned a little closer to his arm and murmured, "It was not one of my better ideas, in hindsight."

"I wouldn't be sorry about it if I were you," he commented, unperturbed, but pulled out her high-backed chair for her before she could work out what he might have meant.

As she seated herself, and he helped to arrange the chair to her satisfaction, she glanced across the table at Lancelot, who was just down from Arthur's senior knight, but he wasn't looking at her, paying attention rather to the spread on the table and a comment from one of the other visiting knights at the foot of the table. Not as though he was aware of her proximity to and intimate moment with the prince, and was deliberately ignoring them, but as though it never occurred to him to take special notice.

She sighed. Well, there went the thought that a touch of jealousy might gain his attention.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya took one deep breath after another, trying to stay calm, then pushed herself up off her back, to a sitting position against the back of the cage. She didn't have to extend her arms all the way to touch both sides, or the top, and if the gaps between the bars had been wider, she could have stuck her feet through the front of the cage. Instead she drew her knees up and tucked the skirt of her shift around her legs, hugging her arms to keep as much warmth to herself as possible, cradling her throbbing right arm.

It was quiet. Too quiet, almost.

Wherever they were, it was remote from townspeople, business, daily routines. It made a depressing sort of sense. She pushed against each bar with her left hand, tried to twist them to test for any give, unable to simply yield and accept, but there was no purchase for hope of accomplishing freedom on her own. The metal felt grimy, and she tried not to think about what might be coating the bars of this sort of prison.

She shifted her position, trying for more comfort, and a nauseating twinge shot through her wrist.

Disbelief. How had this happened? It couldn't be happening, not to _her_. It was laughable, she was nobody. Insignificant and innocuous. Yet she was undeniably caged, unclothed, injured, hungry and thirsty and tired.

And scared. She blinked deliberately, several times.

So there was nothing to be done, here and now. It didn't mean she had to start imagining the details of a journey to some distant auction block, the terrible uncertainty of a new owner, a new home, new tasks. She would not allow herself to hope for kindness or any sort of appreciation of her abilities or skills, that meant she'd accepted a change in status.

No. She was Freya, she was a gardener. She lived in Lionys with her brother –

She lifted her head, dimly aware that time had passed and light had been lost from the pit of a room she was in. She could hear water dripping somewhere and her own breathing, quickened now that she'd thought of –

The keys and bolt scraped, and her muscles tensed involuntarily. She recognized Halig by his shape, before the light from the lamp he carried in one hand fell on his features. He sauntered over to her and set the lamp down on the top of the next crate before shoving a crust of bread through the bars of the one she was in, showering crumbs.

"Dinner," Halig said in his brusque dispassionate way. "Thirsty?"

He tipped the water-skin he held in his other hand, tepid water splashing over her legs, giving her the immediate choice of trying to drink as he poured, or catch the stream in her hands. She did both and ended up damp and breathless and unsatisfied.

"Eat that," Halig said, pointing to the chunk of bread by her ankle. "We'll be leaving at first light, and it'll be a few hours after that when you get anything else."

"Please can you," she tried desperately, "at least give my brother the option of paying your price?"

He grimaced at her with every one of his rotting teeth, the light of the lamp reflected in his greasy skin. " 'Fraid I can't, love," he said. "It's no good for a business like mine, to sell merchandise in the same city where I bought them. Just creates more problems for me."

She'd have to wait it out, then. Wait and watch for someone with a spark of sympathy who could and would get word back to Gwaine.

Halig left the lamp, at least. She made the bread last, taking small bites, chewing slowly, as much to give her something to pass the time, as to make her body believe it was more. Then she sat, alone, with no expectation of rescue or escape.

She tried to distract and amuse her mind, thinking of the strangers visiting the palace, what they would wear and do and say… and eat.

Her stomach rumbled unpleasantly, and she thought instead of the black-haired man chasing Thomas, wondering how such a mild, soft-spoken man could be capable of such violence, and _why_, and who he was trying to kill and whether he'd try again. Whether he'd done this sort of thing before, and how he knew Halig… who'd hurt her wrist and taken her clothes and kicked her into a cage like a dog.

Her throat ached with a sense of humiliation and helplessness. That wasn't helping.

She thought of home, tried to picture herself in her garden, wondered what time of day it was – still warm afternoon, or brilliant sunset, or comfortable twilight, quiet night. The air fresh and clean, the breeze soft on her face, the scent of her garden, green and alive and safe.

Wilting in the sunlight as days passed and she was not there to water or shade the plants.

No.

Back to the comfort and perfection of the daydream, the garden lush and productive around her, and Gwaine's boots scraping on the narrow back stair before his lively dark eyes and devilish grin came into sight, and she'd say, _you need a haircut_, and he'd say, _I need something to eat_.

He wouldn't be back until tomorrow at the earliest. And she wouldn't be home when he got there. She thought of his breezy good-natured greeting meeting emptiness, thought how he'd wait for her for a while. Until a mealtime, probably, before he wondered seriously about her whereabouts. And he might assume that she'd decided to eat elsewhere – with a friend, or something in passing a street-vendor while busy with errands, or that she'd packed herself a meal to spend the day in the woods outside the city.

How long before he began to worry? He'd ask the older couple whose home connected to theirs first. Then who?

Nobody knew anything, she was sure of that. Whatever reason Thomas had for attacking foreigners – or collaborating with the likes of slave traders! – the fact that he'd returned to deal with her recognition of him so decisively and cruelly made her guess that he would not leave any evidence for Gwaine to follow.

Halig had said, tomorrow morning. She'd be out of Lionys before Gwaine entered it again. Hours and hours, and not a clue for him to find, not a trail to follow… He'd be frantic. He'd be angry and scared, and… he'd never forgiven himself for Gareth's death. What would her disappearance do to Gwaine?

Her heart swelled in her chest until it hurt to breathe. _I'm so sorry_.

She hugged her legs to her chest and put her head down on her knees. Taking deep shaky breaths, she squeezed her eyes so tightly shut she saw bursts of color against the back of her eyelids.

Someone said, "Hey."

Just outside her cage. No rusty squeak at the door for warning. Not Halig's voice.

She'd been too involved in not crying to notice that anyone had entered the room, and she jumped back as much as possible in the tiny cage, jerking her head up from her knees.

It was _him_. She recognized him in the lamp's flicker, so startled she thought for a moment she was dreaming or imagining him.

The black-haired man, in a red shirt and brown jacket, bending to look inside the cage at her, his face shadowed by the angle of his body in relation to the lamp, but his eyes alight with concern and resolve, and something else that she couldn't quite read.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"You," she said, blankly. Her mind was too surprised for anything so useful as asking him for help. _Him? Here?_ _But_ –

"Can you walk?" he asked swiftly, quietly, keeping his eyes mostly on the door.

She considered. How long had she been confined? "I don't know," she answered honestly.

"Can you run?" He ducked his head to meet her gaze again, and she understood, hope flaming bright at the center of her chest.

""Yes," she said firmly.

He put his hand on the lock and whispered a single word. The door sprang open and he put one hand inside the cage to help her. She extended her uninjured left, though it would have been less awkward to meet his right hand with hers, allowing him to pull her forward with the grip.

She bent her head to avoid banging it on the cage again, set her bare feet on the floor, and – ye gods, she was stiff – hobbled after him trying to straighten. He didn't let go of her hand, opening the door of the room just enough to slip through. He paused to look both ways down the corridor and listen; she wondered if he could hear her heartbeat, clamoring for freedom but so afraid –

He pulled her through the doorway and turned to close it behind them, his eyes gleaming briefly gold as the door swung into place. The bolt rasped across and the lock on it clicked shut – and all without a single word from him. Not only were his reflexes fast, but his magic was powerful, also.

"Go!" he whispered, nodding down the corridor and she took off, though not so quickly that he couldn't catch up and take the lead.

The hall ended in another, and he turned to the right, once stopping dead to look behind them as though he'd heard something, then running lightly forward again. She followed, and when they came to another door, it proved the exit to freedom.

It was dark, outside. Well past sunset, and stars were already showing. The air smelled wonderfully clean, and so cool that she shivered immediately. Someone shouted behind them, sending alarm skittering along her nerves, and the black-haired man shut the door with a swift gesture.

"That way," he said to her, pointing. She ran, following him instinctively, trusting him in the same way he'd trusted her, earlier in the day.

He was quite a bit taller than she, which meant his legs were longer, and he seemed tireless in running. A stitch opened in her side, and she slowed, and after another intersection, her bare foot came down on something hard. A stone maybe, not sharp, but at the pace they were going it _hurt_, and she couldn't help a cry of pain, limping to a stop. He threw a look over his shoulder and immediately reversed himself, jogging back to her.

There was a street-lamp at the end of the alley, which meant they were close to the main street, but it also meant he could see her more clearly now than he had been able to, before, and she was dressed in nothing but her shift. Embarrassed, she avoided looking at him, leaning against the wall of one of the buildings forming the alley. She lifted her foot onto her other knee to rub the bruised sole, making sure she wasn't bleeding, gulping for breath, and from there it seemed like a good idea to let herself slump to her knees at the base of the wall.

For one moment, she wished he'd leave her there.

Leave her to collect her thoughts and her dignity, find her way home. And pretend this never happened. She was trembling, and she told herself it was the cold; she ducked her head, so that he remained in her field of vision, but not the focus of it. At least he could quit _looking_ at her.

Then he moved so abruptly that she couldn't help flinching rather badly, and he froze for an instant with his jacket caught at his elbows.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to frighten you. I just thought you might be cold." He finished removing the garment more slowly, and knelt about two feet away to hold it out. Not with it clenched in one hand to simply pass to her, but spread open in readiness.

She warily pushed away from the wall, and he settled the jacket over her shoulders. It wasn't new, but comfortably worn, and warm from his body. She clutched the edges together with her left hand, not wanting the intimacy or discomfort of fitting her arms in the sleeves.

"You haven't caught him, then," she said.

The street-lamp was behind him, his face in shadow but for the gleam of his eyes. "What?"

"Why else did you come to Halig's?"

"You saw what happened," he guessed, but it wasn't really a question. "The attack, the sorcerer. I've been tracking him. That can get complicated, when the person you're following is a sorcerer, and aware that you're following, and determined not to let you catch up."

"He said you were persistent," she said, and he shifted.

"He circled back around to you," he commented. "I wonder why…"

"Because I recognized him," she said. "I know him."

He absorbed that. "And he sold you to a slave-trader so there wouldn't be a witness." There was something about the way he said it, as if he were stating only half the answer.

She couldn't even nod. Her throat was threatening to close, but she managed to croak, "Thank you. I didn't think… I didn't expect anyone… to be able to…" She shivered again, her mind seemed to be disconnected from the rest of her. Her mouth refused to explain, the rest of her to _calm down_.

He studied her for a moment, then wordlessly opened his arms and spread them in compassionate suggestion. Propriety and shy self-consciousness raised an immediate barrier – _no, thank you, that won't be necessary_ – but relief and a wild unexpected need for comfort on a purely physical level crashed right through that barrier. It was the sort of thing Gwaine did, when he didn't know what to say to make her feel better, just offering a wordless assurance of brotherly protection and care.

She raised up on her knees and shuffled forward, slipping her arms beneath his to circle his ribs, laying her head down on his shoulder.

He was leaner than Gwaine, but strong. All bone, and muscle. He smelled like horse, like sweat, like pine. She felt his hands gentle and unassuming on her back and wondered what she smelled like to him.

And it was all so humiliating and she'd been so scared and helpless and even though her rational mind knew she was safe and it was over and there was no reason to cry, she was crying. Making a right mess of the shoulder of a stranger's shirt. Gripping him far tighter than she ought, and she couldn't seem to care.

Gradually she became aware of the fact that he was speaking, murmuring as he smoothed her hair and rocked her a little. It's all right and I'm sorry and It's okay and You're okay now and It's over I promise. She realized she was clenching a fistful of his shirt in her left hand at his back, and let go, trying to even her breathing.

"Well," he said, and there was a rumble of amusement in his voice. "That was a first. I've never hugged my own jacket."

She released the last of her breath in an almost-laugh, and sat back away from him. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping the last of the moisture from her face onto her hand, and then on the skirt of her shift.

"All right now?" he said.

She nodded. "I can show you where Thomas lives," she said, getting her legs under her to lift her to her feet. "Unless you want to go back to Halig's?"

"Take it easy," he cautioned, though he didn't touch her again. "There's no rush."

She looked at him as he stood upright as well, and wished she could see him more clearly. That determination and loyalty she'd seen in him meant he'd want to deal with the threat as quickly and decisively as possible and return to his companion's side. And if he'd tracked Thomas to Halig's, he'd lost time in freeing her, time and the assassin's trail. "But that's why you freed me, isn't it?" she said. "To help you catch him?"

Slight hesitation, then, "No," he said, but didn't explain further. "How long were you there?"

"Thomas came for me… about an hour after the attack," she said.

He said softly, in a tone of chagrin and self-recrimination, "I'm that far behind?" She didn't know what to say to that; she knew nothing of the methods one sorcerer might employ to follow another, nor of the magic that might be used to escape pursuit. Then he said, "Where I saw you, was that your home?"

Freya nodded and he looked up and to both sides, as if re-acquiring his bearings, then turned away from the street-lamp, rounding another corner. She followed him at a slower pace, favoring her bruised foot, thinking on the irony of a stranger leading her around her own town. But after the second turn they made, she realized that they were headed south, which meant they'd have to pass her home anyway on the way to the building where Thomas lived.

She wondered how late it was. She saw no one, heard no busy sounds of family life from the structures they passed. At a fast walk, as Freya was still favoring her bruised foot, but aware of his sense of urgency.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly into the silence. They were getting close to her home, now.

She saw movement in the dim shadows and interpreted it as him looking over his shoulder at her, though it was little more than a glance. The constant vigilance she'd noticed as he rode down the street with his companions was obvious once again, as if he was ready or even waiting for something similar to happen again. "What for?" he asked her.  
"I saw you, earlier, come into town," she said. "You must not think much of Lionys; it was a pretty poor welcome."

His answering chuckle held no ill feeling, only pure amusement. "I don't take it personally anymore," he told her. "The higher the status, the bigger the target. Therefore, I blame Arthur."

"Arthur, your friend?" she said. The other plainly-dressed man, the one with the golden hair that the knights treated as the most important… oh, wait. Arthur of Camelot? "Prince Arthur," she said blankly. She might have laughed with incredulity, if she had a bit more breath or energy.

"The one and only." He stopped walking; they were a block down the alley from her house. She moved past him to take up the lead, in a handful of minutes they'd reach Thomas' house. But he took gentle hold of her elbow to stop her. "This is yours, isn't it?" he indicated the turn that led to her home.

"I thought you wanted me to show you where Thomas lives?" she said.

"You don't have to come," he told her. "It would be better if you didn't, actually."

"You want me to give you directions?" she said. "But then what if –"

"I can take the location right from your memory, if you'll let me?"

Oh, with magic. Of course. "All right," she said.

"You're sure?" He sounded mildly surprised, even thought it was his suggestion. She nodded, and he lifted his hand slowly, his palm before her face. "Close your eyes and concentrate," he advised. "If you see it, then I'll see it."

She obeyed, imagining right where they were standing, then the route as it would appear if traveled by night, then drew back a bit from her mind's picture to view the pattern of the city around that particular building.

"Excellent," he murmured, and she opened her eyes to blink them to adjust to her actual surroundings. "Well done." He turned down the alley to her house, and she followed. "Do you live alone?" he asked over his shoulder.

"No, my brother – but he's away right now."

"And he'll be back –"

"Tomorrow sometime, I think?"

"So your house should be empty?" He paused at the opening of the intersection across from her building, and she made a noise of assent. "If you trust me, I'd like to make sure of that, and I can lay some protective spell-work before I go?"

"Because…" she said, then answered her own question, "Because you think he might come back here?"

"I think the slave-trader will alert him, sooner or later, that you escaped," he said.

She sighed. "Yes, then, and thank you."

He moved to the door, trying the latch with caution and silence, standing to one side and motioning her to do the same. Then he pushed it open swiftly – nothing happened. He stepped up into the doorway, one hand empty and held defensively before him, the other cupped as though in support of the glowing blue ball of magelight suddenly illuminating the interior of her small home, that hovered two inches above his palm.

It looked empty to her, and she followed as he moved forward by the table. He glanced around, then spoke a single word and three of her candles sparked as the wick caught the tiny flame. He dropped his other hand, and the blue light vanished.

She said without thinking, "You're very good with magic." Then blushed and wished she'd bitten her tongue; obviously if he was employed as a prince's bodyguard he would be better than the average sorcerer.

But he only said, "Thank you," quite casually. For a moment he didn't move, except to turn his head, as if taking in every aspect of the room – the pots and trays of plants and flowers, the tiny pale seedlings and the darker leaves of the year-round types, the dry spindle sticks of those still waiting for their spring rebirth. The hearth and kitchen nook, the cupboard for dishes, Gwaine's cot and the curtained alcove in the rear where she slept, next to the small plain cabinet where she kept their extra clothes, towels, her apron.

"You're an herbalist?" he said, leaning carefully over two rows of her garden to touch the latch of the small high window.

"I'm a supplier," she answered, and he made a noise of thoughtful acknowledgement, moving on to the next window, on the same wall but further into her home; there were only two, as the far wall behind her alcove was shared with the older couple, and there were none to the south. The front wall was occupied with the door and the outside stair to the roof.

"I'll do the door as well," he told her. "Then no one can enter with ill intent."

When he turned round from touching the second window, she was startled. It was the first time she'd seen him close up, in good light, and he was _young_. Younger than Gwaine, even. His eyes were the wrong color, being a deep clear blue, the bones of his face more angular than the soft youthful roundness she remembered, but for a fleeting second he reminded her strongly of Gareth.

She blurted, "What are you going to do if Thomas is there?"

He gave her a reassuring smile. "If he is, I'll subdue and restrain him, and Lord de Gransse can deal with him."

"If?" she asked, shrugging his jacket off her right shoulder to hold out to him with her left hand.

"I honestly don't expect him to be there," he answered, pulling the jacket on over his red shirt. "He had to guess that I'd find you at the slave-trader's, and that you'd tell me about him."

"So why are you going?" she said, following him to the door, where he brushed his hand up one side of the frame, over the lintel, and down the other.

"Leave no stone unturned." He shrugged, and the gold gleam of magic faded from his eyes. "I should at least have a look at the place."

"And will you –" She cut herself off, biting her lip. It bothered her that something might happen, or even if nothing did, she wouldn't know. And maybe he understood that.

"I'll come back here when I'm through with his house, may I?" he said. "Make sure you're all right?" She let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and he put out his hand with a cheerful smile. "I'm Merlin, by the way."

She hesitated, but only for a moment, and offered her right hand, bracing to hide the pain of him shaking it. "I'm Freya."

He repeated it, with another smile that lit his eyes, like he was genuinely happy to know her. And he didn't shake her hand, he simply took it in both of his, and pressed it gently. "I shouldn't be long," he added, and she watched him start down the alley at a jog before closing the door completely, and dropping the bar into place.

Merlin.

She was halfway to the bucket of washing water when it hit her. Merlin. And Arthur. Ye gods, he was _Merlin Emrys_. And he'd freed her from a cage and walked her home and placed protective spells on her windows and door. And she'd said to him, _you're very good with magic_.

And he'd seen her in her underclothes.

She dropped right down on the bench beside the table, causing the nearest pot, a clump of water mint, to tip and wobble. Earlier she'd cried when it seemed illogical, from some emotional release or reaction to shock. Now she laughed at the absurdity of it all, until tears came to her eyes again.

Well. She had things to do, then, before he returned.

Freya washed herself as best she could, left-handed, ran a wet comb through her hair but left it unbound, then changed into clean clothing. She felt much better, clean, fresh and tired at the same time. Her wrist was swollen, discolored, and stiff; she found a length of linen she could use for a bandage, soaked it, and wrapped it loosely around her wrist to help cool it, to reduce the swelling. Though she hadn't had a chance to make her trip to the woods for fresh greens, she still had comfrey root from last autumn. She laid it out on the table to remind herself to boil it for a warm poultice later the next morning.

Then she began to prepare a simple meal, some dried fruit and some preserved, the last of the day's bread, a sizeable chunk of cheese. She was hungry, and she figured that Merlin probably wouldn't have stopped his hunt to eat, either.

Though she was half listening for it, she jumped when a knock sounded on the door and almost stabbed herself with the knife she was using to cut the bread into portions. His voice was muffled by the closed door, but she heard, "It's Merlin."

She lifted the bar and opened it, drawing back as he stepped up into the doorway. "He wasn't there," she asked.

He shook his head, leaning against the doorframe as if he was tired, his eyes roving again over the interior of her home, not in cautious vigilance like before, but with a faint sense of longing. "I left a ware-stone," he said, and at her questioning look, he explained, "It's a tiny piece of crystal, unobtrusively placed, but it'll alert me when someone enters, and it'll allow me to see and hear everything in the room, also."

"If he goes back there," she said.

And he repeated in confirmation, "If he goes back there." She detected the slightest emphasis on _there_, but he didn't elaborate. He put the heel of his hand in his eye and rubbed it.

She said, "Have you sat down today, since you jumped down from your horse?" He looked at her with a bit of surprise at the question, then considered, but she thought she probably knew the answer. "Have you eaten anything, either?" He ducked his head and gave her a sheepish little-boy grin of the sort she sometimes saw on Gwaine's face when she pointed out some detail of neglect for himself.

Only… he wasn't Gwaine. He wasn't Gareth, either. He was a stranger, a sorcerer of considerable power and talent, attached to the retinue of a visiting prince. Why on earth would he prefer her tiny house, stuffed with pots of dirt and winter-wilted plants and herbs, to the palace and his friends?

"But you probably want to get back to your prince," she added.

"The sorcerer was trying to kill Arthur," he said apologetically. "And one thing I know about assassins, they don't give up. I have to assume he'll try again."

"Your friends will be safe in the palace," she told him. "Lord de Gransse has wards on the walls, so no stranger can get inside."

He looked at her, thinking. "And Thomas knows that. He attacked Arthur in the street, thinking him vulnerable, rather than coming at night…" His eyes shifted away from hers, losing some focus, and his brows drew together. Then he said, "You expect your brother back tomorrow?"

"Yes – unless it's actually today? I don't know how late it is."

"About two hours until midnight."

She didn't ask how he knew that. It didn't matter, really, when she was sure he was right. "Merlin." He met her eyes again. "You saved me. You are more than welcome to share whatever food I have, and a place to sleep, too."

She had time, again, to see the inadequacy of what she offered in comparison to what he must be used to in Camelot, what he could expect at the palace, even as late as it was. Before he said, rather abruptly, "Yes, I'll stay. Can I use your roof?"

"My – roof," she said blankly. "Yes, of course, but…"

"And maybe a scrap of parchment and ink?" he added.

"Of… course." She gave him a look of undisguised curiosity, and he only grinned. She turned to the side bench and pulled out a strip of rolled parchment, an order list from her best customer, that she had filled last week. "You can use this," she told him. "Ink and quill on that shelf, there."

He glanced over the list as he turned to take down the ink and quill, and as he bent over the table to write on the parchment, she saw his gaze on the pieces of comfrey root laid to the side. She returned to the preparations for their meager meal, trimming the preserving wax awkwardly from the wedge of cheese with her left hand, trying to hold it steady with her right without provoking the sharper twinges of pain. He bent over the table on one elbow, the scratch of the quill blending comfortably with the few faint noises she was making. It was a moment before she realized his hand had stilled; though he hadn't straightened, his eyes were on her work, instead of his own.

"Did they do that to you at the slave-trader's?" he asked quietly. He flipped the quill in his fingers to brush the feathery end against her wrist, where the last inch or so of bandage showed below the sleeve of her dress, which was now damp as well, and the whole thing too warm from her body heat to do much good.

"Oh," she said, laying down her knife. She pushed up her sleeve and unwrapped the bandage, turning to soak it once more in the cooling water. "It's not bad, really. Just – inconvenient."

He came around the table as she tried to position the end of the wet bandage to begin wrapping it again, awkwardly, left-handed. "May I see?" he said. "My official position in Camelot is apprentice to the court physician." His lips quirked humorously. "I have picked up a few things."

"Gaius, you mean?" she asked, bunching the wet bandage into a ball to squeeze a few more drops of water back into the bucket, while holding out her right wrist. "We've heard good things about him – you're very lucky to work with him."

"I know." The smile faded a bit as he handled her arm, turning it gently to assess the bruising, pausing briefly over the smaller, more permanent mark on the inside of her wrist. "I'm sorry if this hurts."

He placed his fingertips carefully about the bones of the wrist, probing. She couldn't help wincing, and though she knew he was watching her face to use her expression of pain to gauge the injury, she kept her eyes on his hands. Large hands, with long fingers and bony knuckles, but gentle as a physician's should be. She watched his hands and realized, aside from the dark hair and slender build, what it was that reminded her of Gareth – it was a little-boy sweetness that most boys discarded, sooner or later, as unmanly. But Gareth had never worried about the teasing or ridicule he might face if he showed openly the care and concern he felt for others. Merlin had that quality, too.

"Would you like for me to heal this?" he asked, finished with his examination of the injury but not yet releasing her.

"Oh." She could feel a little heat rising in her cheeks. "You don't have to, you've already done so much. It can heal on its own."

"Normally I'd agree with you. Gaius, my mentor, is always reminding me not to turn too quickly to magic. But there's a bone in your wrist that's cracked, and this is your dominant hand, isn't it?" He lifted it slightly; she didn't pull away. "This happened because I didn't catch him, and because you helped me. Let me help you?"

She looked in his eyes. There was absolutely no arrogance or superiority there, just sincere regret and a desire to help. "Thank you," she said softly.

He repositioned his hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. He whispered the words of a spell, and his eyes gleamed. Then he squeezed gently, his third finger pressing on the outer knob of her wrist, adjusted his grip to pinch that knob and the bones of her last finger at the base of her palm together.

There was an audible click, and immediate relief. The swelling had almost entirely gone down, and the bruises were only faint greenish-yellow shadows. She twisted and bent it experimentally. "Thank you," she said.

"Don't mention it." He turned away to retrieve his little scrap of parchment. "Have you got string, or thread?"

"Yes, in my sewing kit." She wiped the excess water from her hands off on the skirt of her dress, and pulled the box out from under the first shelf of flower-pots. She rummaged a moment and came up with a twist of thread. He was at the door, holding it open for her, and she grabbed the lamp to follow him up the stairs.

He crossed the roof soundlessly, and stood at the front of the building, overlooking the wide main street, dimly lit by the occasional street-lamp, hands on his hips, his head turned toward the distant gate. "You had a pretty good view, from here," he commented without turning. And then, "Do you believe in destiny?"

She was a little startled by the sudden shift of topic, but answered as honestly as she could. "Sometimes."

He spoke the words of a spell into the night, then continued to her, "And sometimes…"

She set the lamp down at the end of the table, mostly bare but for the daisies, thyme, and hawk-weed. "The choice still needs to be made, doesn't it?" she said reasonably, and seated herself on the parapet, as she'd been when she first saw him, and looked up at him. "I mean, when you're faced with those moments that seem life-changing, you can't just stand still and let everything happen without you. Even if your choice has been foretold, you still have to make it."

Before he could speak, a flutter of wings interrupted her, and a pigeon lit on the wall, just in front of Merlin and almost close enough for her to touch, a thing of soft shades of gray, with two bluer stripes around its neck. She marveled for a moment that the small bird would be away from its nest this late at night, when Merlin reached for it, and she realized this was the result of his spell. It didn't struggle or resist his hold, as he rolled his little parchment around the tiny leg.

"Thread?" he said, and she unwound enough to tie the message to the pigeon's leg, standing to accomplish the delicate task as he held the bird. Then he spoke again, and released the bird to another flurry of wings. The pale dot soon disappeared into the night in the direction of the palace. He smiled at her and dropped down onto the parapet himself. "And now we wait," he said.

**A/N: Some dialogue taken from ep. 2.9 "The Lady of the Lake".**

LCT – yep, Freya was the girl in Merlin's vision in the Crystal. Well spotted! We'll see if you approve of the 'life' I've planned for her by the end… Glad you liked Gwen's plan! (I couldn't resist having Arthur meet her as a servant, after all!)


	3. Good Night

**Chapter 3: Good Night**

Gwen was alone in her room – or rather, on the balcony – watching the sun set. Her room was further to the west than the solar, but still commanded a good view of Lionys, as well as the vast forested land beyond the city. She leaned on the railing, enjoying the quiet and the calm. Not having to worry about her manners, what she said and how she appeared, knowing that everyone was watching her – well, her and Arthur but that still included her – her family, her father's knights, Arthur's knights, Arthur himself.

It was exhausting, and it gave her a headache.

Gwen took deep breaths as the color faded from the sky, the yellow glow at the horizon dimming, the blue overhead deepening toward indigo, the stars dotting and twinkling. She rubbed her hands along her arms, rumpling the sleeves of her embroidered dress-robe.

She had thought it would be less complicated, once she had formed an initial opinion of the prince. But it wasn't, and it occurred to her that it was all his fault. If he'd been self-centered and spoiled, brash and arrogant, boorish and stupid, she could have made a fairly quick decision, then behaved for the remainder of the two-week visit with distant politeness. And little encouragement. Many girls would put up with just about anything in a husband, for the throne and crown and title and prestige and wealth of being queen.

Gwen was not one of those girls.

But he wasn't like that. He was considerate and thoughtful, polite and intelligent, humorous and – well, fine, then! – handsome. Not more so than Lancelot – who had never and maybe would never consider her in that way.

So. Now things were more complicated. How far should she release her feelings? How close should she allow him to get, if she was not his only consideration? How disappointed, if he chose someone else? But if she remained reserved and held herself aloof to protect from that disappointment, might he not decide she didn't care, and so choose someone else anyway?

She was so occupied with her thoughts that she only became gradually aware of a soft, repetitive sound. Like footsteps, almost, only neither coming nor going, and _where_ –

Gwen suddenly remembered that the guest chambers were located on the floor below hers and Elyan's at the eastern side of the tower. She leaned on the railing – delicately carved stone that rose chest-high on her – and pushed with her toes to be able to see a slice of the balcony fifteen feet below. There was a shadow moving - back and forth – a shadow thrown by the light from inside the room. Someone was pacing. She wondered which of their four guests it was.

Then he leaned on his own railing, almost to the wall on the far right, where he could see most of the city. Soft light from the chamber behind him shone off golden hair. She watched him study the city a moment, the pattern of alleys separating the buildings fading as dusk became dark, a double handful of street-lamps like scattered coals below them. His shoulders heaved in a sigh, and he scrubbed his hands over his face and hair.

Probably he wanted to be alone, and if it seemed that she was the problem on his mind this evening she'd retire forthwith, but… "My lord?" she ventured. He straightened like he'd been jabbed in the back, turning to look behind him. "No, sire – I'm up here," she added.

He leaned backward over his railing to look up at her in astonishment. "Oh, Guinevere," he said. She watched him pull himself back together, and then he said, "It's a very lovely evening – your balconies are a luxury I am enjoying."

"I always have," she agreed, looking out over the city before dropping her gaze back to his. "If it isn't inappropriate for me to ask, you seem to have something on your mind."

She expected him to wave his hand, indicating the two of them, and say, _all this_, or make some comment intended to politely reassure her that it wasn't _her_, it was _him_…

"Merlin," he said simply.

"Your sorcerer isn't back yet?" she said, surprised and sympathetic.

"No. And while I trust that he is fully capable of taking care of himself, I don't like not knowing what is going on." He turned to look out at the glowing points of the city, and added, half to himself, "It just seems to me that he should have caught the sorcerer who attacked us by now… but I know how stubborn that boy is."

"If you were at home, you'd have gone with him, wouldn't you?" she said, remembering that the prince's role in Camelot resembled Lancelot's, here, more than Elyan's.

"He'd do the same for me," Arthur said, turning back around to face her, leaning back on the balcony rail. "He takes it as his one purpose in life, to protect me. I just wish he'd let me do the same more often."

She rested her chin in her hand and just watched him think and worry about his friend. She wondered if Merlin Emrys held a unique place in Arthur's regard, or if he held the same concern for all his knights. Or both. "How long have you known him?" she asked. "Since the battle of Dinas Emrys, right?"

His mouth pulled sideways in a half-smile, as if he thought it undignified for a prince to grin unreservedly. "You know the story of Vortigern and the tower, don't you?"

"We heard a few different versions," she said. "The general couldn't build a strategic tower because of earthquakes, and decided to offer a human sacrifice. Only it wasn't the anger of the gods, but dragons fighting in an underground cavern? There was supposed to be a prophecy, and a treasure. A cave, and a bell?"

"I'd left Camelot to act as a scout," Arthur told her. "Which lasted about a day before I was captured. Merlin was thirteen years old, a skinny druid boy getting ready to sacrifice himself… But as it turned out –" again that wry, private smile – "Merlin's grandfather was Aurelian the dragonlord. So Vortigern turned us loose to deal with the dragons. Two days later my father arrived with Camelot's army, and Merlin and I joined with the squad meant to re-take the hilltop. We ended up descending the hill to attack the general's troops from the rear. I was wounded; Merlin defended me and healed me."

Gwen tried to picture any of the knights she'd known, at thirteen years of age, taking part in a battle. Lancelot would have been willing, she thought, but probably wouldn't have survived long against veteran warriors. Though druids were supposed to be peaceful people… "I get the feeling there's a lot you left out," she remarked.

He looked out toward the city again. "It would take about three hours to tell that story properly. And there's a lot that I've never told anyone, either…"

She was beginning to glimpse the depth of commitment they had to each other, rather surprising for the son of Uther Pendragon. "You know," she said, "even our own guards will occasionally lose a law-breaker in those alley-ways. I mean, I don't know how it might be different for those with magic, but L– our knights could tell you how difficult it can be trying to run down someone who knows the city better than you."

"There is that," he mused, without turning.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, and he gave a twitch of permission, a nod and shrug at the same time. "At dinner, when I said, tricking you into thinking Enid was me wasn't such a great idea after all, you said, you wouldn't be sorry about it, if you were me. What did you mean?"

He didn't look back up at her, but after a pause for thought or decision, he said, "Your maid is a lovely girl. But it made more sense, when I learned that _you_ were Lady de Gransse."

"What do you mean?" she asked again, blankly.

"You noticed my inattention and questioned it," he said. "You apologized on behalf of your city. And, if I'm not mistaken, you went to give Sir Percival an order, didn't you? It occurred to me –" he gave her a glance upward over his shoulder – "that Guinevere's maid might have more strength of character than she did. And if you'd been the one in the gown, with your maid beside you, I might never have noticed that."

That – that was a compliment she'd never received before. Not from a stranger, and not phrased quite like that. "Enid is just – not very assertive," Gwen said.

"I don't mean to sound offensive," Arthur said, "but this visit – these visits – were my father's idea, as I'm carrying out his order to marry by the end of the year."

Gwen might have made a face, if she'd known him a little better. She thought it would be two more decades at least before her father would be so concerned he'd command Elyan into such a choice, if it happened that her brother remained unmarried that long. But a prince, she supposed, had different responsibilities and expectations than a lord's son. Then her attention was caught by his self-correction.

"How many?" she asked.

_He_ pulled a face at _her_. "Eight," he said. "There were nine last autumn, but Sir Leon – the one sitting across from you at dinner – managed to fall for Godwyn's daughter Elena, while he was waiting for their response to my message. They're betrothed to be married later this summer, when our trip is over."

She couldn't help smiling at the thought of the messenger stealing the lady's heart. "And I'm the –"

"First. Honestly, the best I'm hoping for is to make eight new friends and then go home and wait for the last minute before I make a decision."

She laughed down at him. "You mean you're not going to fall in love eight times by the summer solstice?" He groaned in mock despair. "Why did you come here first?" She was curious about the other names, but determined not to ask. She probably knew some of them and it would be awkward at the very least to make comparisons.

His smile threatened to stretch across his face. "I put all the names on scraps of paper and mixed them up in my tournament helmet and wrote them down in order of Merlin drawing them out."

"So you may be riding from one end of the five kingdoms and back again, and back again," she said.

"It seemed the fairest way." He shrugged.

"Maybe I should –" she began, but was interrupted by a sudden flutter of wings as a gray pigeon landed on the balcony railing not six feet from Arthur's elbow. They both watched the bird, surprised, as it stepped serenely about, head bobbing. She laughed a little at the unexpectedness of the pigeon's visit, but when the prince moved toward it with his hands outstretched, she protested, "No, Arthur, leave it, it's not hurting anything."

The pigeon watched Arthur approach calmly, even allowed him to take it up in his hands, far more gently than she'd expected. His fingers worked briefly, then he set the pigeon down on the railing as though it had been a carving, not a live bird. She squinted down, and saw that he'd unrolled a small scrap of parchment.

"A message?" she asked.

"From Merlin."

She smiled at the relief in his tone. "What does it say? He's all right, then?"

"Yes, he's fine, but he hasn't caught the sorcerer yet. He says there was a complication, he'll explain in person, he's staying the night with one of your citizens who has information on the attacker. He wants to know my plans for the morning." Arthur put his elbow on the railing and leaned sideways, looking up at her. "What are our plans for the morning?"  
Something warm fluttered up from her stomach into her chest, and she couldn't explain it and she couldn't define it and she didn't want to.

Well, since they'd spent the afternoon in-doors, in her favorite place, it would be only fair to do the opposite on the morrow, something out-of-doors, something men enjoy…

"Do you hunt?" she asked, and then the smile on his face was full.

"It has been known to happen on occasion," he said.

She pointed into the darkness toward the west. "There's good hunting in the forest," she told him. "We usually choose a central point for a pavilion, for rest and refreshment, and the men go out in smaller groups. They bet, sometimes, on who'll be the most successful. Then we have a feast in the evening."  
"You don't hunt?" he asked.

"I enjoy the ride, and the forest," she hedged, "but not the kill."

He nodded agreeably; she was rather relieved that it was not something that lowered her in his opinion. Then he said, "The thing is, Guinevere, if this sorcerer continues unsuccessful and uncaught, he'll try again, and then again. And sooner or later, someone else is going to get hurt."

She wasn't sure what that had to do with planning their hunting trip. "You sound like this has happened to you before," she said. It wasn't really a question, assassination attempts were rare but not unheard of, and he was a prince, the son of a warlord.

He snorted, though it was neither confirmation nor denial. "Sometimes," he said, "you have to give someone like that a visible opportunity, and catch them when they take it."

"Like hunting in the forest tomorrow," she said, and he nodded.

"We won't have the safety of the wall-wards, but if Merlin is there and the assassin makes another attempt, we'll have him."

"You sound very sure of that," she observed, running her fingers over the carvings on the stone railing.

"Well, chasing someone down in the back alleys of their own city is one thing," Arthur told her. "But Merlin was raised a druid; he didn't live in a city until he came to Camelot when he was eighteen." His sideways smile held obvious pride. "My friend _owns_ the forest."

"I look forward to meeting him, then," Gwen said.

"What time shall I tell him to meet us?"

"Midmorning?" she offered.

He gave her a quick nod, and pushed away from his railing; the shifting shadows telling her that he'd gone back into his chamber, presumably to write the note. She watched the pigeon step aimlessly along the railing, head bobbing, then turn to preen the feathers of its wing with its beak. But it showed no inclination to fly away, and when Arthur returned, it again allowed the touch of his hands without so much as a flutter or coo of protest. He watched it go, gripping the rail firmly but not tensely, and she wondered what he was thinking.

Then he gave her a backward, upward smile again. "Goodnight, my lady Guinevere," he said. "Sleep well."

"Good night," she returned, and as the closing shutters blocked the light of his bedchamber from the balcony beneath her, she added in an experimental whisper, "Arthur."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"I've never seen that done before," Freya told Merlin, when the pigeon had disappeared from sight. "I mean, done with magic."

He gave her a grin that had a hint of mischief. "Arthur and I have been somewhat preoccupied with messages this winter. So we – well, I, rather – began to experiment with this spell." She crossed her legs, rested her elbow on her knee, and her chin in her hand. "Birds are the best by far," he went on. "I can tell an animal where to go, but it helps if it's already been to the location, or at least seen it. Horses are almost as fast, but problematic indoors. That test did not endear me to the stable-master, I had to bribe him not to mention it to the king. I would also _not_ recommend using dogs to take a message to anyone anywhere near the kitchen."

She laughed and guessed, "You had to bribe the cook not to mention it to the king?"

"The woman is completely unreasonable, but," he shrugged and the grin widened, "better to be banned from the kitchen than the kingdom, I guess."

She snickered, and said, "What else?"

"Well. Cats have no sense of haste, and rodents don't usually get more than thirty feet in any direction before totally side-tracking to avoid things being thrown at them by maids or guards. I tried a turtle once and it took him a week just to reach the staircase."

"Camelot sounds like a lot of fun," she said, not trying very hard to contain her giggles.

He sighed and his smile slipped a little. "Well, we have to find something to do between dangerous quests and priestesses' plots and magical plagues."

They sat for a moment, then she reached over to touch the back of his hand lightly. "And then you come here, and this happens."

He huffed and gave her a wry grin. "How well do you know Thomas?" he asked.

"Not very." She grimaced apologetically, for her lack of information and the whole situation. "I mean, I've lived in Lionys most of my life, in this house, so I'm familiar with most of the people, I mean enough to recognize strangers, but I don't think I've ever said anything to him apart from good morning or nice day isn't it, that sort of thing."

"Why would he want to kill Arthur, though?" Merlin mused.

She cringed. "For the money?" He looked at her. "Thomas has no trade, he just does, odd jobs. Halig said he'd done business with him before. And Gwaine has never liked him."

Merlin hummed thoughtfully. Then said, "Gwaine is your brother? What does he do?"

"He's an armsman-for-hire. Merchant trains, mostly, but he's had temporary positions in a minor nobleman's retinue, or as a guard for a private residence or warehouse. He's delivered strong-boxes. Twice he's fought for Lord de Gransse when he called for volunteers to settle border disputes." She thought again of how near she had come to being taken away from her brother, and shivered.

"You love him," Merlin observed softly. "You miss him when he's gone."

"He's – the only family I have left," she told him.

It was easy to tell him things, to talk to him. Most people wanted a quick exchange of information, or to talk about what was important to _them_, but Merlin was… different. He was still listening, patient and attentive, so she went on.

"We had a younger brother, too, his name was Gareth. He and Gwaine looked so much alike, but they were different as night and day. Gwaine always so active and tough and daring." He'd been one of the boys that jumped rooftop to rooftop, completely careless of the drop to the street. "Gareth was – quieter. More sensitive and thoughtful. He was strong on the inside."

"And you were in the middle," Merlin said. She nodded; he was exactly right. "What happened?"

She gave him a sad smile. "A bad winter, four years ago. My mother was helping to tend a neighbor family, and caught the illness. Gareth was the only one of us who got sick, but he died before she did."

And Gwaine, who refused to consider that it could be a serious, much less fatal illness, did his absolute best to tease and provoke their younger brother to better health as he coughed his life away, a pale bony ghost of himself, and ended up shouting at Gareth the day he'd finally breathed his last, angry and scared… and then stormed out. It had been too late for apologies when Gwaine returned that night. Smelling of alcohol, for the first time in his life.

"My father was a builder," she went on. "He always enjoyed a mug of ale at the tavern at the end of the day, but after Mother and Gareth… he did more drinking, and less building. His last day of work, he fell and hit his head. We did what we could, but he never woke. And three weeks later, he stopped breathing."

There was a pause. About Gwaine and his head-first dive into liquid consolation, his struggle to re-emerge, to find his way and define his life again, she said nothing.

Merlin said, "I'm so sorry," and stretched out his hand as if to touch hers, but straightened and turned the other way as the pigeon fluttered to land on the parapet again, settling its wings and taking a few bobbing steps toward Merlin. He scooped it up in one hand and freed the parchment with the other, then tossed the bird into its flight back to freedom.

He unrolled the parchment – she thought she could tell it was a different bit, which meant the prince had received his message and responded – and took it to read by the light of the lamp on the table.

"Ah, hells, Arthur," he said, more amused than annoyed, and she smiled with wonder at calling a prince by name so familiarly. _Swearing_ at a prince, even in absence and with fondness. "A _hunt_?"

She stood from the parapet and came to claim the lamp. "Is there something wrong with that?" she asked, and he made a motion inviting her to precede him.

"No, it's perfect, actually, if we want him to make another attempt and catch him at it. But it's so predictably _Arthur_."

She thought about it as they descended the stairs again. She knew she wasn't the ultimate authority on the area by any means; she knew where to get what she needed without getting lost, and that was it. But, "I don't think Thomas knows the woods that well," she said, waiting until he'd passed her at the threshold to bar the door for the night, again. "Do you really think he'll try again outside the city, surrounded by Lord Lionys' knights?"

"It depends," Merlin said, straddling the only bench free of planting pots. "If he can't enter the palace, his opportunities will be limited. If he doesn't go home tonight, and he doesn't come here, I think he'll be watching the palace."

Freya didn't say anything; she didn't think she had any insights into an assassin's tactics. Those inside the palace were safe, and Merlin would watch her house and Thomas'. He was watching it right now, or at least, scrutinizing her stock. She sat opposite him, gesturing for him to help himself to the bread and cheese. He did so, tipping his head up to take in the drying clumps of leaves and roots pinned to the lines of twine strung across the room's ceiling.

"May I ask you something?" he said. "I noticed the mark on your wrist – were you born a druid?"

"Oh, that." She put the rest of her piece of cheese into her mouth and turned her wrist over to rub the tiny mark. Swallowing, she told him, "I was almost twelve, and I made some dishes move at the table." Made Gwaine's bowl of stew leap into the air and dump its contents down his front, actually; she still maintained that it served him right, and at least it stopped him _teasing_ her. "My parents were concerned, of course, so we spent a year with a druid clan, so I could learn to control my magic, learn what I could do… and what I couldn't."

"And?" He smiled at her, eyes alight. "Show me?"

She looked at him a long moment. Merlin Emrys, a prince's sorcerer, whose magic was strong and fast – and yet he was interested in her small talent. So she closed her eyes and took a calming breath, and _focused_ – and the dish of dried plums jolted across the table to him. "That's about it," she confessed. "I don't usually use magic, because I can't manage a very fine control of it. Pretty useless."

"You never know," he said optimistically, taking a few of the plums. "Which clan were you with?"

"Elder Gilbert," she said.

He shook his head, as if it was a name he wasn't familiar with. "Was that where you learned all of this?"

"Mm. My mother was a midwife; she learned a lot that year, we both did." She smiled at him, a little self-conscious. "I just – love making things grow, things that can help and heal…"

"I wondered. You seemed much more comfortable with the use of magic than most people are, at first." He grinned at her. "You should have seen Arthur jump the first time I lit a candle in the same room as him."

"Well," she said logically, "he is a Pendragon."

Merlin huffed in a private amusement, and commented obliquely, "They've come a long way."

A yawn took her by surprise. "Oh! I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's been a long day, you must be tired." He stood as she did, helping her stack the empty dishes, wrap up the remains.

"I'll do the washing-up in the morning," she decided. "There's water there you can use, and the soap." She pointed to the cabinet on the far wall. "Towels, and help yourself to any of Gwaine's clothes. I washed the things on his bed after he left, last week, so that's all fresh, too."

"It's perfect. Thank you."

Again, she was aware that the scant comfort she could offer could not compare to a king's or a lord's hospitality, but the sincerity in his voice and eyes was unquestionable. "Good night, then," she said, going to her alcove.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said, as she drew the curtain, and it made her smile.

Freya removed dress, shoes, and stocking, and curled herself in her bed, listening to the faint homey sounds of Merlin washing, then blowing out most of the candles before settling himself on Gwaine's cot. All familiar to her, as used as she was to her brother doing the same at the end of the day, and yet subtly different. She realized that she liked those noises, they were reassuring, they made her feel comfortable. It made her feel safe and reminded her she wasn't alone.

She fell into sleep slowly, her body unmoving but cradled in the cushioning of her bed, her perception sinking gradually away from her surroundings.

The dream began with Thomas, his face inches from hers, eyes gleaming in a way that froze her heart. His body pressed against hers, so heavy she couldn't breathe – _take off your dress_ – or was it Halig, exhaling the stench of decay and abandonment as his hands stripped her of all clothing and dignity. She choked and panicked as Halig – Thomas? – backed away, leaving her exposed before a crowd of men and the weight of their eyes was cruel and callous and she still couldn't breathe. Somewhere among all those uncaring strangers was Gwaine, trying futilely to reach her, to help her, to save her, calling her name…

"Freya. Freya!"

It wasn't Gwaine's voice. She didn't recognize it, but the man who appeared suddenly next to her had black hair and deep blue eyes and he was _looking_ at her but she'd been stripped of all clothing and when he put out his hand she flinched back so hard she slammed into -

The wall behind her alcove. And she was panting to breathe, and damp with sweat, and he was there after all, kneeling beside her bed with the curtain moved to the side and his hands raised to show that he wouldn't touch her without permission, and the depth of compassion and concern in his eyes brought tears to hers.

"It's all right," he said soothingly. "It's me, Merlin."

She nodded, and used the edge of the blanket to wipe the tear that escaped the corner of her eye. He was wearing one of Gwaine's shirts, a white one unlaced at the throat, and a charm on a leather cord swung as he leaned forward.

"What is it?" he continued, "A nightmare?"

She shook her head. Her throat hurt with trying not to cry, and she found it difficult to speak. It seemed ridiculous to her that her mind should be calm and rational, and her emotions and physical reactions so out of her control. "It's nothing," she managed.

He tipped his head in mild reproof. "But you're upset."

"No," she insisted. Even though the lie would be obvious to him, she couldn't bring herself to admit it.

He moved his hand forward to cover hers on the bed, and that simple gentle contact was her undoing. She turned her face into the pillow and sobbed again, feeling exhausted and wretched that she couldn't just be normal, and strong, and carry on as if she had never been helpless and scared.

She heard him murmur that it was okay, and she should just let it all out. She felt his hand smoothing her hair.

"Do a spell," she mumbled desperately. "Use magic?" She knew it was possible, and wanted him to just send her easily and painlessly into oblivion for the rest of the night.

He whispered, and the pressure of his hand left hers. As she relaxed, she listened to him move away from her bed, back to his own. She wondered drowsily why she should feel that and hear that, if he'd put her to sleep, and opened her eyes to blink in confusion.

The curtain had been left open, the room still dimly lit by a single candle, the flame flickering to shift the shadows. He stretched himself out on the cot again, hands behind his head and legs crossed at the ankle. She couldn't tell for sure at that angle, but she thought his eyes were still open, fixed on the ceiling.

She shifted to be able to look upward also, and as the flame of the candle continued its dance, the shadows crept up the walls to the ceiling, the leaves of her plants with curved or feathery edges or tiny round lobes became the myriad trees of a tranquil forest. The round sides of the pots took the shape of tents.

Gradual and vague, the shadows nonetheless showed her a druid camp. The bright spots of campfires, where people moved in secure contentment and camaraderie, a handful of children in silhouette chasing around in one last game before bedtime. All that was good in the world was there – friendship and safety and plenty – and soothed her soul.

_Beautiful_, she thought. _The magic, or the man?_ she asked herself. _Yes_.

The tension of her nightmare released by degrees as she watched the shadows move and play and settle, and she didn't remember closing her eyes.

In the morning she woke just as slowly, the noises intruding into her sleep rousing consciousness without alarm. She opened her eyes and rolled to her side and focused in mild bewilderment on the sight of her houseguest – powerful sorcerer, companion of princes – elbow-deep in her wash-basin, halfway through the previous night's dishes. He was fully clothed, wearing his own shirt once again, the fire had been tended and the water barrel refilled, presumably from the well she shared with several neighbors.

"Oh," she said, scrambling out of bed, out of her alcove. "Merlin, you don't have to do that!"

He arched an eyebrow at her in amusement. "Physician's apprentice, remember?" he said. "I do quite a bit of washing up at home, actually."

She slowed her steps to join him at the table. His sleeves were loosely rolled to his elbows, and when he lifted the fruit bowl clear of the soapy water, she gasped.

His green-black tattooing nearly covered both forearms, from the wrists and rising more than halfway to his elbows. She reached without thinking to grasp both his hands and turn his forearms up, studying and reading the marks. Knots curling into sharp points and curving back into swirls, each detailing and proclaiming a separate branch of magic he'd studied and mastered, according to the druids' customs.

There was _so much_. And it wasn't finished, gaps left at the elbow-end where more could've been added, which meant he hadn't been subjected to the elders' examination and the coming-of-age ceremony, when the tattoos would have been closed and complete. She rubbed her thumb over one line that joined his last achievement to bare skin.

"Dinas Emrys," he said, as an explanation and reminder, "interrupted my life in more ways than one."

His blue eyes smiled at her, and she suddenly realized that she'd been poring over what amounted to his life story without asking his permission first, while water dripped onto the table between them. Self-conscious, she dropped her gaze, then poked a small swirl near the side of his left wrist, signifying a base grasp of the principles of healing magic, the size indicating he had not shown enough talent to continue to advanced training with a healer.

"Really, physician's apprentice?" she teased.

He rolled his eyes. "It's not our strengths that need exercising, but our weakness," he told her with affable exasperation.

And because he sounded so very much like Elder Gilbert, a rotund, snub-nosed, earnest-faced man, she laughed right out loud. He leaned across the table to capture her newly-healed right wrist gently but firmly and meaningfully, dragging her toward him.

"I didn't hear you laughing last night," he growled playfully.

She never discovered how she might have responded.

Behind her, the door was flung open wide and Gwaine strode in, dumping his bedroll casually on the floor, saying in his own tone of sarcastic insistence, "Freya! Where are –"

He swung his dark hair out of his face, took in the presence of a stranger, Merlin's hand around her arm as she pretended to fight the contact – she hadn't put her clothes on yet, once again barefoot and in her shift, how _could_ she have forgotten? – and he dropped the basket in his hand to draw his sword in one swift fluid motion. Gwaine's face twisted in a snarl of anger, "Bastard! Get your hands off my –"

Merlin had come around the table faster than thought, using his grip on her arm to push her behind him. Grim and ready to fight in his own way, and putting himself between her and someone he saw as a threat.

Gwaine swung, and the sword stuck frozen in midair. His brown eyes widened momentarily, probably in reaction to the flash of gold in Merlin's, and he went for his belt knife. Merlin's hand rose in response, and she struggled to free herself.

"No, stop!" she shouted over his shoulder. "Gwaine, stop! Merlin, it's Gwaine!"  
Merlin released her immediately, taking a half-step back but not lowering his hands. "It isn't –" he said.

The sword hovered; she avoided it to step between them. "No, this is my brother," she told him, before turning to Gwaine, whose glower included her, now.

"Freya," he said in a low voice. "_What_ the hell is going on, and _who_ the hell is he?"

"Are you listening?" she asked him, and he blinked, the rage dying in his eyes. He straightened from his ready-to-fight crouch and lowered his knife to his side, his eyes going again over her lack of appropriate attire, going past her to linger on the druidic symbols tattooed on Merlin's arms.

"I'm listening," he said shortly.

"Merlin Emrys," she said, "meet my brother Gwaine." To her brother she said, quickly and calmly, "He arrived in town yesterday with Prince Arthur of Camelot. Thomas attacked them but escaped, I helped Merlin but Thomas came back and put a sleeping spell on me and sold me to Halig and Merlin freed me and and so I offered more help, and that he could sleep here last night."

Gwaine stared at her. She wondered if she'd lost him at _Prince Arthur_. Of course she'd have to repeat the whole story in more detail with Merlin corroborating, but he needed to know that Merlin was neither attacking her nor dishonoring her.

"You got all that?" Merlin said, amused, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the table.

Gwaine looked him over again more carefully, and Freya watched him accept the identity of the stranger in his house as Merlin Emrys, and connect him to Prince Arthur as believable, and then – "Thomas?" he said incredulously, returning his gaze to her. "_Thomas Collins_ attacked Prince Arthur of Camelot? And sold you to Halig the slave-trader?"

She took a deep breath and let it out. "Let me get dressed and fix breakfast first?" she suggested.

**A/N: Forgot to say in the last chapter, the ware-stone idea comes from Susan Cooper's "The Dark is Rising" sequence… Also, and again, some dialogue from ep.2.9 "The Lady of the Lake".**

Guest reviewer: Glad you're liking the shift to canon romance, and Gwen's background (more legend than canon, I suppose) as a noble facing an "arranged" marriage!

LCT: Glad you like the Arthur for this a/u. I think that growing up a warlord's son rather than a king's might have had something to do with the differences in his character, as well as meeting Merlin at a younger age, and knowing the magic the whole time, having Morgana as a sister since he can remember… (and besides, two weeks isn't long enough for her to work her own kind of magic on an arrogant princeling, even if this Gwen were so inclined!) I'm glad you like Freya being Gwaine's sister, I have a feeling some readers may be holding judgment on that… as for Thomas and Gareth, one is series character and one is legend, and hopefully this chapter satisfies curiosity on one of them, at least!


	4. Hunting

**Chapter 4: Hunting **

_Freya took a deep breath and let it out. "Let me get dressed and fix breakfast first?" she suggested._

Gwaine looked like he wanted to protest, to demand more information immediately, but glanced down at her again, and shrugged in resignation. She hurried back to her alcove , and drew the curtain almost all the way behind her, pausing to look back at the two men. For a bemused moment Gwaine watched Merlin step back behind the table to finish washing up. Then he reached for the hilt of his sword, still frozen in the middle of his strike at Merlin, but with a reversed grip, thumb toward the pommel rather than the blade. Merlin allowed the weapon free, and Gwaine returned it to the sheath at his side. Neither had spoken a word.

Freya snatched her dress from its hook on the wall and buttoned it swiftly, combing her hair but leaving it loose on her shoulders and her feet bare for the time being. She emerged to find Merlin just finishing, and Gwaine silently unpacking, keeping Merlin in his line of sight.

"I'm glad you're home," she said to her brother, wrapping her arms around him for a quick hug, her body swaying with his as he continued working.

"I brought you eggs," he told her, pointing to the basket, retrieved from the floor and set on a corner of the table. "Probably they're all broken from dropping - sorry."

"That's part of why they're sold packed in straw," she reminded him, going to tie an apron around her waist, adding to Merlin at the wash-basin, "Leave that on the bench behind you; I'll use it to wash after breakfast." She reached for a large bowl and the ingredients she'd need for a quick batch of biscuits.

"So, Thomas Collins, huh?" Gwaine said behind her. "Wonder who hired him. And how they found him. He's not the sort I would have picked to kill a prince."

"He doesn't seem especially strong in magic," Merlin commented. "But he was fast, and clever – he left a few traps that would have been pretty nasty if they'd worked."

"Where did it happen?" Gwaine asked.

As she added water and molded the dough to its desired consistency, she listened to Merlin's version of the attack, and the chase, how he'd trailed Thomas past the house again, to the building that Halig was using. It was the first that Thomas had entered, which was enough incentive for Merlin to investigate it more thoroughly, which resulted in his discovery of Freya.

Gwaine moved around the table to her side; his eyes were dark with concern and fury, both. "Did they hurt you?" he said in a low voice. "Did they touch you?"

She smiled up at him. "No," she said, "I'm fine." She debated with herself for another moment, whether to admit to the injured wrist in order to tell of Merlin's role in healing it, or whether to leave that part out, for Gwaine's sake, but before she could decide, her brother had enveloped her in a tight hug. She could feel the tension in his muscles of anger and relief, and knew he'd already thought, as she had, on what might have been.

Without releasing her, he turned to Merlin and put out his hand, which Merlin took without fully comprehending. "I can never repay you," he told Merlin. The words were matter-of-fact, but the emotion was deep.

Freya saw that Merlin understood. "Please don't try," he responded, in much the same manner.

But Gwaine had the honor, if not the status, of a knight. "I'm good for it," he told Merlin, and it sounded like a promise, to her. She wriggled free and turned to the open cabinet, but Merlin anticipated her need and bent to extract a small metal tray. As she began forming and placing the biscuits, Gwaine added to Merlin, in a lighter tone of playful menace, "Although, that does not explain what you're doing here this morning."

Merlin hummed in thoughtful agreement, and Freya answered, "I showed him where Thomas lives, but he wasn't there – and it was late and the prince is safe in Lord Lionel's palace. It was my idea for him to stay."

Silence, for as long as it took her to open the small iron door built into the side of the hearth, and slide the tray into the heated gap in the masonry for the biscuits to bake. She wiped her hands on her apron, and reached for another flat pan, glancing up at them and then halting her movements. They were staring at each other as if attempting to communicate silently – like the druids often did, only Gwaine had absolutely no talent in magic. Her brother looked like he was trying to figure something out; Merlin as if he did not want Gwaine to know whatever it was.

It ended when Gwaine suddenly growled, "The bastard! I'll kill him."

"What?" she said, startled, setting the flat pan close to the fire where the metal could heat.

"He used you," Gwaine told her, spinning away from the table to pace.

She looked at Merlin, who grimaced at her apologetically, but offered no explanation. She reached for the egg-basket and began to extricate the unbroken eggs – only one did not survive the fall – as she watched Gwaine wheel at the far end of the room and stalk back.

"Thomas," Gwaine spat, as if the name now held a bad taste. "In bringing you to Halig, he not only dealt with a witness to his crime, but if Emrys –"

"Please just say Merlin," their guest suggested.

Gwaine amended, "If Merlin followed him all that way, he'd probably leave off the chase to take care of you, if he wanted to benefit from your information."

Oh. She hadn't thought of it like that. She'd assumed she'd been helping him, when really she was only a distraction tossed in his way to allow Thomas to escape. And he'd known that – it was why he'd asked when she expected her brother's return, why he'd decided to stay, to make sure of her protection, and in case Thomas came looking for him there. She looked back down at the eggs huddled in her apron, and cracked them absently over the griddle. As the eggs began to sizzle, she stood and set the eggshells aside to be ground and added to the dirt of her plants.

And then, "I'm sorry," she told Merlin, who shook his head, distress showing in his expression; he hadn't wanted her to realize.

"Please don't be," he said. "It's not your fault."

"So," Gwaine said, leaning over the table on his palms. He gave Merlin a grin that was anything but cheerful. "Have you got a plan for dealing with the bas-"

"That's enough of that word," Freya said sternly, reaching for a couple sprigs of dried wild onion and a small knife to chop them with.

"For dealing with Thomas?" Gwaine continued, pretending he hadn't heard her.

"Arthur's going hunting this morning, I'm to meet up with him in the woods west of town and hope Thomas tries again there," Merlin said. "In the meantime, I'll know the minute he steps foot over his own threshold."

"Hm," Gwaine said. "One sorcerer against another, lots of knights around… seems to me you've got that angle covered." That devilish grin Freya knew only too well was back. She turned to scatter her handful of chopped green onion over the cooking eggs.

"What do you have in mind?" Merlin said; it sounded like he wanted to smile in the same way, or maybe already was.

"Why don't you tell me where you found Freya?" Gwaine suggested, "and I'll pay Halig a little visit?"

"Do not go on your own," Freya said, and it was a plea as well as a command, though she kept her eyes on the eggs, judging when to pull the pan away from the heat. "You don't know how many men he might be able to call on."

Gwaine considered for a moment, then decided, "I'll ask Percival to come – that'll make whatever I do legal." He turned his grin on Merlin. "Probably."

She told Merlin, "Sir Percival is one of Lord Lionel's knights."

"What about you, then?" Gwaine said suddenly, looking back at her.

She let go of the oven's handle and shook the sting of sharp heat from her hand as the door banged shut on the pale biscuits. "Almost done. What about me?"

"If he's off in the woods and I'm running down slave-traders, you'll be here alone. I don't like that, it's not safe."

"Yes, it is," Freya said. "Merlin put protective spells on the house, I'll be fine. I've lots to do, moving the garden to the roof, anyway."

"Um," Merlin said. "Those spells only work if you stay inside the house. Sorry."

"Then I'll stay inside," Freya said. "I'll take a nap or something."

Gwaine looked at her, and the fierceness softened. "I'd feel much better if you were with someone, and away from here. At least for the morning?"

She sighed, and turned to pull the biscuits from the gap where the fire's warmth permeating the bricks of the hearth had baked them brown, her hand protected by several folds of her apron. "I'll go to Finna's, then," she decided. "For the morning."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Thank you, Mary," Gwen said. She reached to straighten the corner of the dark quilted blanket laid primarily for her own comfort, over the rougher canvas ground-cover keeping the fine material and the fine people from any dampness of the earth. "It was very nice of you to accompany us this morning, I want you to know I appreciate it."

"No matter, my lady." Mary rose somewhat more laboriously to her feet, smiling politely through the wrinkles of old age. "I only hope that Enid will be feeling better soon."

"Perhaps her illness will go as quickly as it came," Gwen agreed. She'd miss Enid this morning, they were close in age and good friends, which made time-passing conversation with her much easier than with someone like Mary, old enough to be her grandmother. "You didn't have to come, though, there must have been others who'd be able to."

"I don't mind, my lady," Mary stated. "I helped to prepare the lunch for yourself and the gentlemen, I might as well serve it. May I get you anything?" she added, as Gwen stepped carefully onto the wide velvet throw and lowered herself to a reclining position.

"No, I'm fine for now."

Gwen watched as the elderly kitchen attendant picked a slow careful way down the incline to the wagon, where two male servants were busy, one with the cart-horses and Gwen's mare, and the other unhooking and lowering the hinged sides of the wagon. She watched Mary fuss with the baskets and containers on the exposed bed of the wagon, preparing for the eventual return of hungry hunters.

Lifting her eyes to the trees of the forest, she searched idly for any signs of the prince or the knights. They'd been an eager bunch, riding out, Prince Arthur at her side, with Sir Leon and Lancelot in front of them, the two other knights of Camelot – Vidor and Caridoc, although she wasn't completely certain which was which – behind her, and half a dozen others native to Lionys.

Even though the visit was meant for the two of them to decide, Gwen knew that wider impressions would be made, also, as Arthur became more familiar with the knights of Lionys, and her father and brother – who'd stayed back in the palace that morning over some urgent request from the council over spring flooding in the lowlands to the east. Sir Percival was also absent from their excursion, having left the palace earlier than they had, to deal with a report of slavers in the city.

She herself knew she would do well to become acquainted with the three visiting knights – and the sorcerer, if he ever turned up. As they rode, she answered the occasional remark of Arthur's, listening to the typical male banter going on around her otherwise, and watched the forest all around as if Merlin Emrys might suddenly pop out from behind a tree.

Or the assassin.

Gwen had said, "Will he –" in a low, hesitant voice.

Arthur answered immediately, confidently, "He'll be here. Even if we don't see him, right away."

She wasn't entirely sure which man they referred to. Maybe the good-natured repartee among the knights served to cover a higher vigilance. Arthur, at least, never let his gaze linger long in one place.

Reclining on the soft velvet, she couldn't detect a single hint of the location of any of the three hunting parties. Arthur, Leon, Lancelot, and two of the Lionys knights made up the main group, and Sirs Vidor and Caridoc each had two others accompanying them. They'd ridden off in different directions, the prince's party being central, as his protection was a high priority for the morning. Last-minute insults and challenges were exchanged - though there would be no competition as there usually was, between the parties, as uneven as they were – before each blended into the thick early-spring forest growth. She didn't really expect to see or hear any of them, though; they'd ride ready to fire the crossbows each carried at whatever prey they disturbed, and if they came across a fresh trail of something bigger – boar or bear or hind – they'd dismount and track more quietly on foot.

Gwen lay back on the soft spread, squinted at sunlight filtering down through the leaves, and shifted so her eyes were shaded. Then, perversely, she closed them. She did love the ride, and the forest, though she knew other girls of her age and status cared more for details of clothing and decoration and entertainment, finer and cleaner and safer pursuits indoors. She rather enjoyed the exercise and the fresh air, the comfortable feel of riding-clothes able to withstand hardier activities. Who cared about muddy boots or horse- or hound-hair on their trousers or acquiring the smell of earth and leaf?

She breathed deeply, relaxing, though the memory of the assassin still uncaught kept her mind awake and alert.

It might have been minutes only, or it might have been well over an hour, before she realized she heard only the sounds of surrounding nature – the rustling of leaves, the creak and rub of branches in the breeze, birds and insects. She listened deliberately for a moment, decided she _was_ interested enough to bother, and sat up.

The two male servants were sprawled in the shade, their tasks temporarily accomplished, waiting on further orders from herself or the returning hunters. She needed nothing; let them rest and enjoy the day also.

Only – where was Mary?

The faint surprise and gratitude she felt at the older woman's willingness to endure a cart-ride and the rough comfort of an outdoor meal without proper seating was budding into a concern for her well-being. Mary should not have ventured off by herself, the ground was too rough for an older person to wander without a companion, although any predators would probably keep their distance in the daytime.

As with the hunters, she sat still and turned her head slowly, searching for movement or color – though Mary like most of the servants habitually wore brown – listening. Nothing.

Well, at least it gave her something to do. It was no longer relaxing just to sit there, if she continued to wonder and worry about the old woman. She pushed herself up and descended the hill, her riding boots dislodging a few stones, her divided skirt catching on a low bramble-bush. The two male servants were on their feet respectfully as she arrived at the wagon.

"Get you something, my lady?" one of them said.

"A drink of water, please, thank you," she said, and he turned to fill a cup from a small barrel at the head of the wagon. "Where's Mary gone, do you know?" she asked the other, who shook his head and smiled in contrite ignorance.

The first handed her the full cup. "Mary headed that direction, my lady," he said, pointing. "She mentioned something about finding more water?" Gwen looked down at the remaining inch of water in her cup, then gave the man a confused look. Surely they had plenty of water. He shrugged in response.

"I think I'll go and join her," Gwen decided, handing the cup back.

"Call if you need us for anything, my lady," the second added, as she turned away.

She had no interest in hunting or tracking, but she wasn't unobservant, having grown up in the company of men who did this sort of thing for a living or for fun. She noticed a stone overturned, a twig snapped, a patch of leaves no longer packed to the earth but shuffled, and followed the old woman quite easily. Water meant downhill, anyway, everyone knew that much.

Mary hadn't gone far, no more than sixty or seventy yards. Gwen saw her kneeling beside a small pool formed where a little brook descending from the west had backed up behind a small natural dam of stones and washed twigs.

She hesitated. Something about the old servant was – off. Mary wasn't relaxed and comfortable, enjoying the sights and sounds around her, nor was she busy with any self-appointed task of bringing water back. There was no bucket.

Mary stared fixedly down into the water of the pool, every inch of her plump, slow body tense with concentration. Perhaps there were minnows in the pool? She looked like she was watching something… Gwen crept closer, trying to be as quiet as possible, to not disturb the old woman's activity, benign or… otherwise, but not as though she was sneaking or spying, until she was quite close, footfalls silent on the mossy carpet on the ground, and she could see into the pool as well.

At first, she saw nothing. No fish, no amphibians, no life at all to hold anyone's attention, only the reflection of light and shadow that was sky behind tossing leaves. But something didn't match. A light wind rushed through the little glen, causing the branches above them to shift and wave, but the water didn't so much as ripple, and the reflected shadows moved contrary to the air around her.

She took another step forward, and bit back a gasp. There was a crossbow in the pool.

It moved, but the water didn't, and a man's hand came into view, gripping the weapon. She realized her mistake – what she saw was not within the pool, nor a reflection. Mary was _scrying_. The faint sense of curious surprise that the old kitchen maid was capable of doing magic was quickly eclipsed by concern over the image shown in the water. The man's hand was followed by a shoulder, his shirt grubby white overlaid by a sleeveless jacket or vest of some thick coarse material.

He wore neither the red of Camelot nor the dark green of Lionys. But he was in the woods somewhere with a crossbow.

"Is that the man who attacked Arthur?" Gwen gasped, falling to her knees beside Mary, who paid her scant attention, merely mumbling an affirmative. "What's he doing?"

"He's waiting in ambush," the old woman said, matter-of-factly.

"We have to warn Arthur!" Gwen lifted her head to scan the forest, as if somehow the waiting assassin or the oblivious prince might be within ordinary view, or hailing distance.

"I cannot," Mary murmured.

"But he's in danger!"

"That he is," the old woman agreed calmly.

"There might be others hurt as well," Gwen objected. Perhaps Mary could give her an idea of direction, she could take her horse to try to reach one of the hunting parties.

"There is always that risk," Mary allowed. She hadn't lifted her head or looked away from the scene shown in the pool once. She hadn't called Gwen _my lady_ either; Gwen wondered if the old woman was even aware of the identity of the person beside her. But she hunched forward suddenly, her attention gaining intensity. "_Who is that_?" she snapped, her gnarled hand hovering over the surface of the water.

Gwen leaned forward as well, studying the landscape the scrying pool showed. "I don't see anyone," she said blankly. That was good, though, wasn't it? If they saw anyone else enter the image, that meant the assassin would see them also, wouldn't it?

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Mary snarled, putting her hands down at the edge of the pool, heedless of moss and mud, to lean even closer to the water. "A sorcerer, damn his eyes! He's blocking me!"

"A sorcerer?" Gwen said, bewildered. She saw nothing but the man's arm and the crossbow jerking in frantic action, firing and loading and finally flung aside. "Oh, _good_! Merlin Emrys, he'll protect Arthur! He'll handle –"

Mary's hand flew, viciously and carelessly. The back of her knuckles caught Gwen's temple and knocked her sprawling backwards. Stunned, she watched as the pool erupted with bursts of silent light, obliterating the scene without disturbing the water's surface. Lifting her eyes, she saw the forest spread around them incongruously tranquil still. Mary snarled unintelligible words; they sounded cruel and dangerous, her gestures vehement and erratic.

Gwen managed to gain her feet, staring at the good-natured old servant in disbelief, trying to make sense of the chaotic scene in the pool – flashes of fire and wind-tossed branches – and the last image horrifyingly abrupt.

A man's body flopped to the bracken-covered ground, eyes open and face caught in the final grimace of undeniable death. He looked plain and ordinary, otherwise, his hair thinning on the top of his head. White shirt and brown vest. It was the assassin; the water went black. Gwen's sigh of relief was cut short by an agonizing wail from the old woman that set her nerves quivering.

"Ah, Thomas, Thomas!" Mary keened, and the name was familiar to Gwen before the servant continued, "My son, my son!"

What.

She took a step back. Mary had a son named Thomas, she recalled. He lived in town, and they saw each other one day out of the week. She hadn't known he was a sorcerer, either. She hadn't known he was an –

"Damn you, Emrys!" Mary hissed at the blank inoffensive water. "Damn you, Pendragon! You will feel the pain of loss before death, I promise you that! I will –"

Gwen's foot broke a stick.

She froze as the old woman turned on her, her wrinkled face twisted with venom, gray hairs escaping the sedate scarf she wore, wild-eyed now with grief and hate.

"We'll start with you, shall we, my pretty one?" Mary said, rising slowly to her feet. "The prince came here to hunt, did he not? Then let him hunt!" She raised her hand toward Gwen and shrilled a malicious-sounding phrase, light literally flashing in her eyes.

She had no time to run, or hide, or duck. She stood still, her heart pounded and her head swam. But nothing happened.

Mary smirked and added, "I wonder what Lord Lionel will do when he finds out what's become of his beautiful daughter, who he will hold responsible. I wonder what Sir Elyan will do to your golden-haired prince. I wonder what Sir Lancelot –" She was interrupted by a shout from the direction of the wagon. Someone was calling Gwen's name; one of the other servants, maybe. Mary crouched a little in reaction, curling her arms inward against her chest as she clutched an amulet hung around her neck. Her incantation was hurried and desperate, and she tipped her head back as a wind swirled wisps of opaque mist around her, seeming to draw her upwards, and then she was gone.

Gwen was shaking, and couldn't help staring all around her, uncertain that the witch – there was no other word for it – was gone. She wanted to go to the pool for water to ease the dryness in her throat, the nausea of terror in her stomach, but for the memory of the magic performed there.

No. Best to return to the wagon.

She had not recovered from the shock, hadn't quite grasped the significance of what had occurred, she thought, stumbling in a fashion that was uncoordinated, for her, back toward a place of safety. But there was no reason for quiet, was there? The hunters ought to be alerted – the party to return to the city – her father to be told –

Through the trees she saw the brown-garbed serving men, and almost sobbed in relief. "I'm here!" she called. They didn't hear her, still visually searching the forest. Two others came up behind them, in her father's dark green colors but still too far for her to recognize them, their hunting bows swinging casually at their sides.

Gwen quickened her clumsy pace and called out again, waving to gain their attention. One of the servants tensed as if he'd seen her, leaning toward the knight beside him and pointing.

The knight raised his crossbow, aiming for her.

She froze, again. Hadn't they seen her? Perhaps there was an animal behind her, a predator stalking her that she hadn't noticed. She whirled round, scanning – nothing. She turned back – he was clearly going to fire his weapon. She stepped sideways behind a tree as the bolt sliced hissing through the air where she'd stood and the leaves just behind her.

"It's me!" she yelled from behind the tree. "It's Guinevere!" She risked a look.

The second knight had his crossbow up, the first was re-loading another arrow. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but one of the servants pointed to the tree she'd taken cover behind, and the second knight nudged his fellow to the left as he stepped to the right. She watched for several incredulous moments as the two adopted a hunter-stalker's distinctly stealthy tread.

Perhaps Mary had returned to the wagon area and enchanted them… All four of them? What did they see? Her eyes fell on the knight on the left, she opened her mouth and let out a blood-curdling scream. He didn't pause, didn't blink. He signaled something to his companion, and lifted his bow, once again aiming directly at her.

Gwen whirled and fled. There was no plan in her mind, no time for reasoning actions and making choices. Only escape.

There might have been another arrow, or five. She heard shouts behind her as the two men, heavier and encumbered with their weapons, gave chase. Instinctively she headed downhill, it felt the fastest route. She passed the pool and leaped over the stream and when she reached the bottom of the hill she turned northwest.

It was rockier and narrower and eventually she had to scramble over rocks on hands and knees, her gasping breaths and thundering pulse so loud in her ears she didn't know whether they might be gaining on her, or have lost her entirely. She only knew she did not want to try to outrun them on level open ground.

Reaching the top of that rocky slope, she risked a glance back. The two knights loyal to her father followed still, but their eyes were on the ground rather than on her. Had she lost them in the rocks?

A twig snapped, away to the south and she flinched. Zip-thud! and another arrow struck the tree beside her. One wild look showed her Lionys green and Camelot red – more hunters, joining the two she'd run from.

She moaned and began running again. The frantic energy of her first sprint was gone, leaving only a desperately determined strength that was beginning to flag. She stopped for breath and turned; glimpses through the underbrush showed her pursuers following inexorably. She sobbed under her breath and shrieked out, "Help me, somebody! Oh, help!"

Not a one of them looked to have heard the words. Should she climb a tree or would they shoot her down? Was there a spell on _her_? Would it wear off if she could elude the hunters long enough, or would she wander the woods until she died or was killed?

Gwen moved off again, more slowly, more quietly. The wood was thicker here, it meant she could keep out of their sight. So she believed until she gained the peak of a ridge and leaned against an enormous oak to try to catch her breath. Her chest burned and her feet throbbed in her boots and her legs wobbled and –

The shout and the pain were simultaneous.

"There it is!"

Fire exploded in her left thigh, melting muscle and bone, boiling blood. The force of the blow tipped her balance too far forward over the steep drop into a ravine, and her leg refused to hold her weight.

She fell.

It wasn't a life-threatening distance, but perhaps a bone-breaking one. Her outflung hands met an exposed root of the oak, and grasped, and her descent came to a halt. She hung there for a moment, the incline of the bank such that gravity would pull her down without her hold on the anchoring root, but a good bit of her weight was supported by the earth and not her arm.

Gwen looked back, and up – part of the bank had crumbled away, forming a hollow beneath the roots that would not be visible from above. If only she could… She kicked with her right leg, digging the heel of her riding boot into the side of the slope, and pulled. Inch by agonizing inch, clenching her teeth against the whimpering – not because they might hear her, but because she would hear herself – she managed to tuck herself into the hollow, bracing her weight on a root with her good leg, so she could let go. She was shaking.

She closed her eyes to avoid looking at whatever injury was causing her entire leg upwards of her hip to throb, to jolt her toward sickening darkness if it was bumped. She closed her eyes as a child playing hide-and-seek, illogically hoping that if she could see no one, then no one could see her. She heard them, though.

Rustling footsteps, and voices. The men, the hunters, though she didn't put any names to individuals, and didn't want to.

"Did you see where it went?"

"It was right here when I hit it, where could it have gone?"

"Are you sure you hit it? My old granny has a better eye for aim than you do…"

"Shut it – your arrow went wide, anyway, everyone saw that."

"There's blood."

"Maybe it went over the bank." Silence. Gwen held her breath.

Then, "If it's wounded, it'll head downhill. I know where this ravine comes out, we can pick up the track further down."

"How much further? It's nearly noon…"

"Oh, quit whining."

"Forego eating _now_, and we'll have something to contribute to the feast _tonight_." The voices began to fade, the footsteps to diminish.

"Was it a young buck or a doe, could you tell? I didn't see any horns."

"I didn't see a fawn, in any case."

How in all hells – she swore mentally, there was no one to correct her for unladylike language – had they mistaken her for a _deer_?

The leg supporting her weight began to tremble. She wondered how long she could remain in her hiding place before falling. She wondered how long it would take them to reach the end of the ravine, conclude that their prey had not passed that way, and begin to work their way back up to her. And when they did… a vague belief fluttered through her mind, that enchantments were broken when the caster – or the subject – died.

"My lady."

She jumped at the soft call and gasped at the shock of pain the movement sent through her.

There was a man below her, on the floor of the ravine, a peasant by the look of him. Rough, plain clothes somewhat grubby with long wear or hard work. Brown trousers, boots, jacket, faded red shirt. But his hands were empty; he carried no weapon. And his face held honesty and concern. And –

"You can see me," she said. "You can hear me?"

"Yes." He began to climb up the side of the bank toward her, careful with hand- and foot-holds in the steep incline, using the root system of the large oak to come almost even with her. "You're hurt."

"The hunters," she said, and her voice came out a miserable gasp. "I think they thought I was a deer."

"Yes." He nodded his head, shaggy black hair a bit damp with sweat tumbling over his forehead. "It's a strong glamour." His lips quirked at her; he looked young to be wandering the woods alone. "I don't suppose I need to ask your permission – why would you say no, after all – but some people feel more comfortable with a bit of warning before I do magic."

She stared at him, unable initially to draw the proper meaning from his words. There was something in his eyes - the accustomed heaviness of a burden, an accepted level of weariness that somehow laid aside the consideration of his troubles to make hers his priority.

He smiled again, more gently, even shyly, and spoke a few soft words. His blue eyes flashed golden, as Mary's had done, and again she could not tell that anything had changed. But he looked pleased with himself.

"You're a sorcerer," she said, and immediately felt stupid for stating the obvious.

"Yes."

Her mind began to work at something approaching normal speed again. "You're Arthur's sorcerer. Merlin Emrys."

"My lady Guinevere de Gransse, if I don't miss my guess," he said, as courteous as if they'd met in the atrium of her father's palace, but with a frank friendliness that made her feel immediately comfortable with him.

"Just Gwen, please," she told him.

His eyes shone with an immediate acceptance and connection that made her feel as if she'd passed some test. "Just Merlin, then, Gwen," he said.

But… "He said you were skinny," she said, with some confusion. Slender, maybe lean, but that impression was aided by his height, she thought.

His grin was boyish and infectious. "Arthur said?" She nodded, and he added, "The lady Morgana advised me years ago that I should do some growing _out_ as well as _up_, and I have done my best to obey. Your leg is bleeding." She wasn't surprised, and didn't look down, only nodded when he added, "May I?" After a moment of jaw-clenching and eye-squinting – completely unnecessary, she didn't feel him touch her at all – he observed calmly, "You've been shot; the arrow is still in the wound. I can treat it here, or we can slide to the bottom of the ravine first?"

She looked into the deep blue of his eyes, earnest and focused, and at his hands. Empty. "But you've nothing…" she trailed off, not wishing to contradict her rescuer. But he had no water, no bandages.

His eyebrows, black as his hair, lifted in good humor. "I was intending to heal you with magic," he told her.

Oh, right. She blessed her complexion, which didn't show blushes easily. "Yes, please, if it's not too much trouble. Here?"

"If you wish, although I will have to remove the arrow first, which will cause some additional pain…" She nodded and shrugged at once, reaching out to grip one of the knobby, dirty roots that ran fairly close to her head on her right, which turned her away from the injured side. He shifted his position, and she felt his touch on her leg, then, each twinge like a red-hot poker touching her skin. "I'm sorry," he said, "deep breath in."

Gwen began to inhale, and he gave an almighty jerk. Her lungs filled with her pained gasp and pink and yellow stars burst against the back of her eyelids. Dust sifted into her face as her hands shook on the root she gripped for dear life.

She heard him murmuring again, felt his hands on her leg. The blaze calmed to a hot throb and then to a dull warm murmur.

And then she was only exhausted and damp with perspiration and trembly all over.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated. "You're all right, though. It doesn't hurt anymore?"

Not trusting her voice for a moment, she shook her head. Then she managed, "Down. Let's go down."

"All right. Stay behind me a little." He turned to descend the steep bank with his back to it, allowing himself to slide a couple of feet before halting to assist her. And if it hadn't been for his outstretched arm – he was stronger than he looked – a couple of times she'd have fallen the whole drop at once.

"Arthur really ought to knight me," he commented over his shoulder to her, his wry expression telling her he was joking. "Rescuing damsels in distress is kind of a knight thing, isn't it."

"If he won't, we'll ask my father to do it," she responded, a little breathlessly, and he snorted in amusement. When they reached the bottom, he stood, but she shook her head. "I've run all over creation this morning," she said. "I'm going to sit for a while."

…**..*…..**

LCT: Yep, you guessed on Thomas. Ep.1.1. And here you have his mother going nuts-o! And for Gareth, I was just drawing on Tennyson's "Idylls", which has Gareth the younger brother of Gwaine.


	5. Vulnerability

**Chapter 5: Vulnerability**

"_I've run all over creation this morning," Gwen said. "I'm going to sit for a while."_

Rubbing her blood off his hands with the dirt from the bank, Merlin glanced up the ravine. Moments later she heard the sounds of someone else approaching; he explained down to her, "Arthur."

Gwen leaned back on her hands and watched him stride up the ravine as his prince came into view, and smiled involuntarily in response to the look on Arthur's face when he caught sight of his friend, something like incredulous joy. He threw his head back to give a shout of laughter and added, "Merlin!" reaching out his hand.

She didn't hear what Merlin said, but he clasped the prince's forearm unhesitatingly in greeting, and Arthur slapped his upper arm in a further show of affection. His gaze shifted past the sorcerer to her, seated inelegantly on the ground, disheveled tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid curling around her face.

Arthur came straight to her, worry darkening the blue of his eyes. "Guinevere," he said, kneeling but not touching her. He looked down at her leg and she blushed again, at the bloody tear that showed a bit of skin also. "Are you all right?"

"I am now, thanks to Merlin," she said.

"Thanks to Merlin," he repeated, as though mockingly reluctant to give the sorcerer the credit. Merlin crouched a few feet away, grinning as widely as if Arthur had showered compliments. "It was Merlin's idea to take responsibility for the assassin on himself." His tone managed both admiration and reproach.

"Thomas," Gwen said, realizing that it would have been Merlin she hadn't seen in the scrying-pool, the magic that Mary had sensed. That he would have come from battling the assassin to find her, a battle that had ended in the death of his opponent – no wonder he'd looked troubled and exhausted. "But it wasn't Thomas who did this to me."

Both of them looked at her with nearly identical expressions of surprise. Merlin said, "You know him?"

Arthur asked, right on the heels of Merlin's question, "You saw him?"

"Sort of," she answered both questions. "Thomas' mother Mary works in the palace kitchen, she came with us today."

Understanding began to glimmer in Merlin's eyes. "I wondered how he knew exactly where to go, how he got there before I did – she must have told him your plans."

She went on, mainly addressing Arthur, "Mary was using a scrying pool to watch Thomas – he was waiting to ambush you - and perhaps even help him."

Merlin nodded as if something about their confrontation now made sense to him, then straightened a little in dismayed realization. "Oh, hells, she saw what I did to him, didn't she? And that's why she –" He pointed at Gwen, and she saw in an instant that he blamed himself.

"It's all right, you couldn't have known," she said.

"What did she do?" Arthur demanded, his eyes narrowed. But not, she saw, at her. Or Merlin.

"She put a glamour on Gwen, so she looked like a deer."

Arthur continued, horror paling his own face, "Because she thought one of us would kill you, then." His eyes dropped back to the tear in her riding skirt, and he reached to take her hand. She resisted for a second, aware of the state it was in after her ordeal, but he seemed to take no notice of the dirt and scratches, just squeezed it tightly for a moment. "You were shot."

"I'm okay now," she reassured him.

"Where is she now?"

She glanced at Merlin as if he could help her explain. "She used magic, and the wind blew, and she disappeared."

Arthur looked at Merlin, who twisted in his crouch, then stood and took two paces up the ravine. Beyond him, Lancelot came into view, followed by Arthur's senior knight, Sir Leon. Arthur straightened also and stepped to Merlin's side, reaching to put his hand on the back of the younger man's neck and give him a little shake to gain his full attention back from the approaching knights.

Arthur looked him in the eye for the space of two heartbeats, then said in a low but intense voice, "Thank you."

Gwen understood. All that Mary intended, the conflict between the men involved and the kingdoms they represented caused by her death or disappearance – or even her wounding – had been avoided.

Then the prince released Merlin and stepped forward to introduce him to Lancelot. "I gather we have you to thank for the safety of Lady de Gransse," Lancelot said.

Behind him, Leon remarked mildly, "Merlin, I don't suppose you managed to find the assassin, as well as the lady?"

Lancelot continued to Gwen's side, as Arthur had, kneeling without touching her. She moved her hand to cover the bloody tear, and answered his, "Are you all right, my lady? Are you hurt?" with a nod, then a shake of her head, half her attention still on the three men from Camelot.

"Once in a while I do get lucky," Merlin said, accepting Leon's jibe with good humor. "He was inclined to fight rather than surrender." Lancelot turned as the young sorcerer added, "You'll find his body maybe a quarter-league west of here."

"So the threat has been dealt with," Sir Leon said to Arthur, who looked at Merlin before both of them looked down at her.

"Did she say anything to you?" Arthur asked. "Any idea what she might do next?"

Gwen shook her head. "I didn't even know she was a sorceress."

"Mary?" Lancelot said in surprise.

She told him, "Mary's son Thomas was the assassin who attacked Prince Arthur in the street yesterday."

Leon said to Merlin, "He had a mother?"

Gwen looked back at Arthur, shaking her head. "She was nice, a sweet old lady, gentle and harmless, I would have said. I'm – still a little shocked, honestly."

Merlin said to Arthur, "That's what I heard about Thomas – he was nice, he was quiet, he took odd jobs in place of a steady trade. The neighbors would never guess him capable of planning or committing murder." He looked down at Gwen and the shadow of a frown crossed his face. "Highly vindictive, though."

Then Gwen remembered. "She said, _You will feel the pain of loss before death_."

"So she does intend to follow through on whatever contract her son accepted," Arthur concluded.

_Damn you, Emrys. Damn you, Pendragon. _You_ will feel the pain… I promise _you_…_ "Merlin, I…" Gwen began, troubled, and his focus sharpened attentively. "I think she might've meant – both of you?"

"Death, or loss?" Arthur asked.

"Yes," she said, her eyes on Merlin, who took a step back, as white and grim as he'd been when shouldering needless responsibility for Mary's decision to vent spite upon Gwen.

"So she attacked you to hurt Arthur?" Leon said, clarifying, which prompted Lancelot to murmur another query about her condition.

Arthur said to Leon, "Well, who would she target for Merlin to lose? You and I are right here…"

"The family I stayed with," Merlin said, stiffly, as though he was having trouble speaking. "They know Thomas Collins. Mary knew them. What if he told her?" He wrenched his gaze from Gwen to Arthur, and repeated distractedly, "What if he told her?"

"You think they might be in danger?" Arthur questioned intently.

Merlin said, "But you –"

"Go to them," Arthur told him. "Leon is here, and Lancelot –" They could hear other shouts, approaching from both directions. Lancelot raised his head, shrilling a whistled signal. "We're well-protected, we're going right back to the palace, which is warded." It occurred to Gwen that they'd have to adjust the wards to prevent Mary entering, maybe search the palace to make sure she hadn't already hidden herself away somewhere.

Merlin backed another step away from them, clearly torn between two responsibilities. "I don't know how long…"

Arthur gave him a half-smile. "Send me a message, like last night."

Merlin gave Leon a look of eloquent entreaty, and the knight bowed slightly in response. The sorcerer looked at Gwen, and Lancelot on the ground, as if to make sure they no longer needed him either. He took another step back. "Look after each other," he said, and Gwen had the feeling he was telling them all equally. Then he called out a phrase that sounded very like the one Mary had used, and his eyes blazed gold. The wind whipped up a scattering of fallen leaves around him, and as he tipped his head back his body seemed to lift in the air, and he vanished.

Arthur and Leon looked at each other. "He'll be all right, sire," Leon said.

"He better be," the prince returned, with a touch of grim humor, then turned to her. "Guinevere? Are you all right to make it back to the horses?"

"What happened?" Lancelot said to her.

She looked at Arthur as she answered the captain of her father's knights. "I went a little too far from the wagon, and got lost and I… fell." Lancelot looked up the bank, but Arthur didn't take his eyes from hers. _Please, don't tell_, she thought at him. Whether that had occurred to Merlin or not, the avoidance of the question of her injury by healing her, or whether her well-being was his whole concern, she didn't know.

Arthur said nothing, but stepped to her, hand outstretched. Just as Lancelot, his back to the prince, straightened and did the same. Arthur hesitated, Lancelot noticed him and drew back. She solved their dilemma by extending a hand to either, and they lifted her easily.

She was worn out and thirsty - and a bit hungry too, if she was honest, but determined that none of them would touch the picnic lunch Mary had a hand in making – hot and filthy. Her muscles ached in legs and arms both, feet and joints stiff from unexpected and dangerous exercise. But fine, she believed, until she put her right foot on the ground.

A splinter of pain shot through her ankle and she pitched forward, more surprised than hurt, right into the prince, whose reflexes were entirely adequate for preventing her from hitting the ground. And if it had been her left ankle, she thought in a detached way, it would have been Lancelot she'd fallen into.

"Oh, for the love of –" she said, annoyed, gripping at the lapels of Arthur's hunting jacket to get her good foot underneath her.

His hands cupped her elbows as he tried to assess the new problem. "Your ankle?" he said.

She nodded. "I must've turned it coming down the slope." She tested it again, inhaling sharply at the twinge that shot up her leg. It wouldn't take any of her weight.

"Pity we didn't realize while Merlin was still here," Leon said, with gentle irony.

"I'm sorry," Gwen told them. Oh, for goodness sake.

"Leon, bring the horses as close as you can get them?" Arthur said, then turned the other direction, as the others that Lancelot had signaled came into view. "Vidor, take one of de Gransse's knights – the body of the assassin lies a quarter of a league westward." Gwen noticed something – that Arthur had assumed command of all the fighting men naturally, and Lancelot had allowed it without a thought. "Retrieve it and meet us at the wagon, and all of you – watch each other's backs. The assassin's mother is a witch, and probably means to finish what he started. She won't care who gets in the way, now he's dead, and may even strike at some of you from sheer spite. Lord Lionel's men may recognize her as Mary, one of the servants."

There was a stir among the gathered knights; Gwen didn't look up, not wanting to recognize any of her pursuers. If any of them realized how close they were now to the place they'd last seen their quarry, no one said, and she rather hoped this excitement would drive the matter further from their memories.

"Go," Arthur added, and the men in Lionys green were only fractionally slower to obey than those in crimson.

"Sire, perhaps we should not wait for the horses to move Lady Guinevere," Lancelot suggested.

"Yes, you're right," Arthur decided after only a second's reflection, and absolutely no consideration of pride or reputation or position in accepting advice from someone whose status was lower than his own.

But once again, both men turned to her simultaneously.

It was yesterday's dream come true. To suffer some minor hurt, to be taken in Lancelot's strong arms, to be held against his well-muscled chest and hang her arms around his neck, and look into his warm brown eyes, filled with concern for her, from only inches away. At eight years old, and he only a few years older, there had been no question of him carrying her, he hadn't had the strength – he'd knelt with her beneath the cherry tree in the orchard until her father arrived. At fifteen she'd pretended to lose control of the new horse she'd been riding so that Lancelot, the closest knight, would spring to save her – she'd tumbled down from the saddle to his arms and to his lips, and one astonished moment later he'd released her with a gentle and humiliating admonition against displaying affection so openly.

Only, she knew she wouldn't enjoy such a situation today. Not with Arthur, the man she was supposed to be considering for betrothal, right there with them.

In any case, Lancelot gave the prince an abbreviated bow and a wordless gesture indicating his recognition of Arthur's greater claim over her safety and care.

And the prince – oh dear goodness – didn't hesitate to bend and lift her in his arms. He grunted and hefted her and gave her a sideways grin when she giggled. "Lead on, Sir Lancelot," he said, the calm of his voice mostly covering the strain her additional weight caused.

The other knight in red – Caridoc, then, since Vidor had gone to see to the body of the assassin – and another of her father's knights passed them to join Lancelot at the front of their impromptu procession. The others followed, and when they emerged from the confines of the ravine, she noticed that two more knights of Lionys took positions further to the sides, watching outward.

Now their crossbows were held ready in her defense. She couldn't help a snort and a shake of her head at the irony.

"What's the matter?" Arthur asked, a bit shortly, but she didn't hold it against him. He didn't need to use his breath for speaking.

"Nothing, just…thank you. For this." She noticed a trickle of sweat descending his temple toward his jaw, and caught it absently on the cuff of her sleeve. Then, to hear him make some ludicrously courteous response, she added, "I'm sorry, I must weigh a ton."

He grinned, though the expression was brief and not without tension. "Don't be ridiculous, I couldn't lift you if you weighed a ton."

She opened her mouth to continue the teasing, _Lancelot could_, and then changed her mind.

He carried her some distance in silence. His golden hair was dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead; she thought of brushing it back for his coolness and comfort, and didn't quite dare. She did mop another trickle of sweat with her sleeve, and he gave her a quick glance, his blue eyes inscrutable.

"My lord," Lancelot said, from a dozen yards ahead of them. "Sir Leon has the horses just up here. It's a bit steep for them, but it's another forty yards further to a place the mounts can manage to meet us."

The prince kept walking. Gwen looked up the short hill to see the heads of her mare and Arthur's gelding, other of their mounts behind them; Sir Leon at their heads gave her a genial salute.

"Let's go here," Arthur decided, coming to Lancelot's side.

"You can't carry me up there," she objected.

"Perhaps both of us?" Lancelot suggested.

Arthur studied the hill and nodded, adjusting his grip to lower her legs while still allowing her to balance on only one. Lancelot moved to her other side; by clasping each other's wrists, they made a narrow bench for her with their arms, leaving them a free hand each for the ascent. She put one arm around each man's neck, embarrassed and self-conscious, and they lifted her.

She couldn't tell which of them was the more perceptive or sensitive, but they moved smoothly together, never jostling or jarring her. They were both so different – Lancelot dark of eye and hair, always calm and neat; Arthur so fair and while polite, she had also seen him worried and upset. Lancelot was… proper. Arthur was passion.

And yet, they were so alike, also. Warriors and knights, gentlemen.

They reached the top all three a bit breathless, and because it was her right ankle that was sore, Arthur knelt to grip her left calf and give her a leg up on her horse, lifting her as she bounced, fairly tossing her up into the saddle.

When she looked down to thank him, his eyes were on the damaged section of her riding skirt, the skin of her thigh dirty and bloody where it showed again through the tear. Her thanks died in a suddenly dry throat, and after another swift unreadable upward flicker of his eyes, he turned away.

They rode back to the palace in much the same formation as they had only a few hours earlier, but the men were stern and subdued, and no one spoke much.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya stretched and yawned, deliberately dawdling on her way home.

In spite of her worry over the safety of her brother, and Merlin, she'd managed a couple of hours' sleep at Finna's. The healer's cozy shop-and-quarters always had a soothing effect on her – the herbal smells sweet and pungent, similar to that of her own house but more medicinal, as the matronly older woman mixed and melded. The sounds of the rhythmic grinding of mortar and pestle, and subtle bubbling of liquid was soporific. There hadn't been any customers interrupting the serenity with complaints and conversation, and Finna herself was comfortably incurious about the reason for Freya's abrupt and long visit.

Until noon, Gwaine had said. Well, it was past that, her stomach told her. Some of the wider alleys housed narrow booths where edibles of every kind could be purchased without making a detour to the main street necessary. Freya's appetite woke at the sights and smells, but she decided to wait to see if Gwaine was home, then get enough for both of them.

She wondered if she would see Merlin again. She wondered what would happen in the forest, with Thomas, with the prince. Whether Merlin would go on to the palace and that would be the end of… whatever this was.

Freya rounded the well, smiling at two little urchins chasing each other in the dust, their skin as brown as their hair, and turned down a narrower lane that was something of a shortcut home. She was aware in a vague unworried way that it was deserted as far as she could see, as far as the turn, two buildings past her home, but for the figure of a woman lingering at the far end. Nondescript dress, scarf over her head, the roundness and bent posture all giving Freya the impression of age rather than youth.

It was impolite to stare, so Freya kept her eyes modestly elsewhere, the dust underfoot, the barrel for rainwater at the corner of the building, the intersection alley that formed the corner of her building. At her threshold, she paused.

The woman stepped forward, no longer loitering in place, but making a purposeful if slow way toward her. Freya opened her mouth to call a good morning – only it wasn't morning anymore, was it – no matter, she could offer assistance or information, if it was needed –

Her voice wouldn't come.

She began to lift her hand to cover a cough – some dust in her throat, no doubt – but her body was frozen as well. She watched the woman approach, step by deliberate step, as her heart seemed to slow incongruously with the sense of impending danger.

Twenty feet away, Freya recognized her. Mary Collins. Thomas' mother. Who worked in the palace, and had a son who threw fireballs at princes and sold neighbors into slavery. And Merlin was going to-

"Another pretty one," Mary said maliciously. She was close enough for Freya to see that her eyes burned with rage and grief. "Young, and innocent. You don't know what it is to carry a child in your belly. Young and innocent and pretty. To have someone depend on you completely, for life, for love."

Freya tried again to speak. Something had gone very wrong that morning; she hoped that Merlin and his Arthur were unharmed, but she doubted very much that Thomas was. She wanted to offer sympathy and comfort to her distraught neighbor, but… she couldn't move.

"You don't know what it is to raise that child, to work and give and worry, to feel pride and hope and fear! And then in one moment to lose _everything_!" Mary's voice rose in a shriek. Freya hoped that someone would hear, someone would come, but there was no one. She couldn't even hear anyone else, anymore. "He will learn." The old woman's voice dropped to a hate-filled hiss. "He will learn what loss is, that murderer that you took in – to your house, to your heart – to your body, my pretty, innocent whore?"

_What_? Freya thought, confused. _No, it wasn't like that_…

"Thomas was never good enough for you, but a foreign butcher is welcome?" Mary's hand began to rise. "You keep company with murderers, perhaps you would like to know _exactly how that feels_? If you see him, you tell him your victims are his fault! And he can kill one more before he dies!" Mary began to voice an incantation, and her eyes flared with golden magic. And Freya was helpless.

From the corner of her eye she saw movement, rough and violent. A man's body slammed into hers – one arm reaching to envelop her, shield her, the other flung in a defensive gesture toward Mary – black hair disheveled, blue eyes ablaze with fury.

A flash of light and a sharp sudden noise not unlike a great gong. An agonized shriek suddenly cut off.

Her shoulder hit the door as they tumbled through it, tangled together. She was underneath, mostly, but somehow her impact with the ground was cushioned by his arm, his hand below her head. She felt and heard him kick the door shut behind them – the door where he'd laid his protective spells - and then she opened her eyes.

They were inches apart, his weight pinning her down, his chest heaving with his lungs' struggle to draw in breath, as if he'd just run a great distance as hard as he could.

His eyes, fathomless blue pools, dropped down to her mouth and she thought _what_? and _no_! and… _yes_…

Something flickered in the depths of his soul, then his eyes closed and his body collapsed limply, heavily, down on top of her. She didn't move, feeling his breath on her neck, feeling the erratic battle of his heart in his chest, waiting for the moment when it ended.

She didn't know how long they lay there on the floor. She didn't know how many times he began to stir, trying to fight his way to consciousness, only to succumb again with a groan or helpless whimper. She didn't know when she had begun to cry.

Freya was still crying when Gwaine found them. He gasped her name and tried to move Merlin's body off hers, but she clung to him so hard that her brother only succeeded in rolling both of them to their sides.

She was convinced if she let go, then so would Merlin.

And they both would be lost.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen let her head rest on the towel padding the back of the tub, warm ripples soothing her aching body. She inhaled the scent of lilac that lingered after Enid had helped to wash her hair and skin, and imagined she could detect the smell of horse, underneath the lighter fragrance.

"Are you sure you're up to working this afternoon?" she said aloud.

Enid paused at the dressing table, where she was laying out ointment for Gwen's scratches, the file and oil she used to treat her nails. "I do feel much better," her maid answered. "I think perhaps it was something I ate? Only, I'm so sorry I wasn't with you this morning – it must have been so terrible for you. Getting lost in the woods when there was an assassin prowling around after Prince Arthur!"

She didn't know the half of it – and never would. Gwen wondered if it was worth pursuing or mentioning, the possibility that Mary had done something to Enid to ensure her own presence on the hunting trip. And the truth of the witch's spell threatening her life would, she rather hoped, stay a secret between her and Arthur and Merlin – and maybe Lancelot and Leon, if they figured it out, or questioned.

"I think I can get this blood out of your riding outfit, though," Enid continued. "And sew the tear so it doesn't show? You're lucky Emrys was there – I bet this scratch really hurt, didn't it? Too bad he couldn't have healed them all at once, but I suppose magic isn't always the answer for everything."

Gwen listened to Enid chatter on with half an ear. She didn't have to open her eyes to find the place on her thigh where the arrow had pierced her. Her fingers under the water touched only smooth, unscarred skin; and the other scratches would disappear in a few days, leaving no visible reminders of that morning's adventure.

She had a feeling, though, it might take a little longer to feel herself mentally and emotionally.

To distract her thoughts, she maneuvered herself upright from the tub, using a chair placed next to it for the purpose, and knelt upon the seat of it to dry herself with the towel left draped over the back.

"Would you like to lie down for a few hours after I've done your hair?" Enid asked, entering the bathing chamber with Gwen's clothes. She wrapped another towel around Gwen's hair and helped her dress in a comfortable day-outfit like she'd been wearing yesterday when Arthur arrived. Voluminous trousers and fitted bodice, this time in embroidered amethyst, the sleeves mere swaths of fabric draped over her upper arms, the skin of her middle left bare in a three-inch strip between the hem of the bodice and the sash of the trousers.

"No," Gwen said. She put her hand on Enid's shoulder and hobbled to the dressing stool. She no longer felt the shooting pain when she put her weight on her right foot, only when she tried to bend the ankle. She'd politely but definitely declined the services of a healer from the town, and - because of the uproar caused by the revelation of Mary's betrayal, she rather thought – the issue wasn't pressed.

"Aren't you tired?" Enid asked. "I know I would be." She took a seat next to Gwen to begin repairing the damage to her hands and nails.

Gwen reached for the tray of flatbread, and dipped a piece into a little dish of blackberry preserves. "I'm a little tired," she admitted. "But I don't want to…" To be alone? To close her eyes and allow her thoughts to overtake her?

What bothered her, she discovered, as Enid finished with her hands and turned her attention to drying and combing Gwen's hair, was not the danger. Not the threat of crossbow bolts flying through the air at her, the running and hiding. It was the feeling of helplessness and isolation when she discovered that the men didn't recognize her and couldn't hear her.

Enid finished combing and began to braid her damp hair down her back. "What would you like to do then?"

She considered. Her activities were somewhat limited temporarily, to what she could do sitting or lying down. "A game?" she suggested.

Enid organized her in the sitting area of her chamber, with the dressing-stool to prop her foot on and a little table between their chair for the cloth depicting the playing field to be spread out on. "Purple or white?" she said, shaking the polished stones within their velvet bags.

Gwen opened her mouth but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Enid laid aside the bags and Gwen twisted in her seat to watch her maid open it, recognize the visitor with a blush, then push the door back against the wall to invite admittance.

It was Prince Arthur. He'd washed, though he hadn't yet changed. "I wanted to let you know," he said to Gwen without preamble, "one of the guards reported seeing Mary in town after this morning's incident – though he wasn't aware of that at the time. The wall-wards have been adjusted to keep her out, so we should be perfectly safe here, now."

"Thank you," Gwen said, relieved.

"I also wanted to check that you were all right?" he said.

"Why don't you come in and sit down?" she suggested, gesturing to the chair opposite her. And when he began to demur, she added, "That way I don't get a cramp in my neck trying to talk to you over my shoulder." The look on Enid's face prompted her to add a belated, "My lord."

He didn't exactly smile, but he did come into her sitting room and take the chair. Enid placed a large brass urn in font of the door to keep it open, for the sake of propriety and a breeze, then opened the shutters of the balcony before beginning to putter around the bathing chamber.

She reached to pour the polished stones from their velvet bags, and place them on the cloth playing field on the table between them. "What about Merlin?" she asked.

"Still waiting to hear. Though he did take hours to report in, yesterday." Arthur tried to cover his level of concern with sarcasm, and didn't entirely succeed.

"You're worried about him," she observed.

He shrugged, his gaze fixed on her hands, the stones, the set-up for the game. He probably noticed that she gave him the white set of playing pieces, which traditionally made the first move in the game, but didn't comment on that. "People can sometimes have misconceptions about a powerful sorcerer," he said, almost absently. "He's only human, after all. He gets tired, he gets distracted. He's smart and fast –" Arthur looked up at her and pointed in a playful way – "and don't ever tell him I said that, will you? But he has a tendency to act first and think later, sometimes. He'll throw himself into something trusting to his instincts and magic to get him out. He's been right so far, but…" He toyed with one of his pieces, and glanced toward the open balcony.

"If he send you a messenger pigeon again," Gwen reasoned, "it'll come and find you, specifically, not just wait at your room?" He considered, then nodded. "Let's play," she said, "while we're waiting to hear from him?"

He sighed, and placed his piece in a common opening move. She leaned forward to counter the advantage he'd attempted, and for a few moments neither of them said anything, occupied in shifting their stones into profitable territories. Enid moved the tray of flatbread and preserves near them, then excused herself with a murmur and a bobbed curtsy.

Arthur sat back as she captured one of his pieces and removed it from the playing field. "You're very good at this," he complimented her.

"You're not just letting me win to be polite?" she challenged him.

He teased back, "You're not just letting me win to be polite?"

"Of course not," she said. "Because I'm the one winning." She gave him an arch smile, and was rewarded by a small lopsided grin in return. "I can usually beat Enid, but the only other person I play with is Elyan, and I never beat him. He's very much like my father; he'll be a good governor for Lionys one day. He can keep every move in his head, and plan out his strategies half a dozen moves in advance."

Arthur huffed in amusement. "I don't usually have a lot of time for this sort of pastime," he admitted. "Winter, sometimes. I play with Merlin, or Leon, or… I know Leon too well to lose to him, but Merlin… I know him just as well as Leon, but he can be unpredictable, too. Sometimes I can't guess whether he's going to sacrifice one piece to save the game, or whether he's going to maneuver all of his stones to protect just the one, or…"

"Or a combination of both?" she suggested.

He pulled his hand back from his intended move to toy with the three amethyst stones he'd won from her so far. "You're taking this all very well," he said, and she knew he didn't mean their game.

She sighed, sitting back herself and re-adjusting the angle of her leg, resting on her dressing-stool. "What good does it do to panic?"

"I'm sure many girls would have," he commented. "Dissolved into hysterics. Gotten themselves, and maybe others as well, killed."

She shivered at the way he said it. It was a compliment, but it seemed to her a warning as well. She remembered he'd said, _It's something I've grown accustomed to… seem to attract trouble…_ "I spent a good deal of time around the squires and knights in training, when I was young," she told him. "I suppose I've picked up some of their instruction."

"You sound like my sister. She was abducted almost a year ago, and when we found her, she'd already rescued herself." Arthur reached to move one of his pieces without seeming to give it much thought.

Gwen smiled. "I'd like to meet her someday."

"Morgana tends to be outspoken and opinionated," he said, and gave her an evaluating look before adding, "She's on the priestesses' isle, learning magic from her half-sister."

"Rather her than me," Gwen said without thinking, and reached to advance one of her stones where none of them would be at risk of capture.

"How do you mean?" He took his turn without even looking at the layout of the game.

"Magic," she said. "I never wanted to have it or learn it. I'm happy being who I am without gaining that kind of power."

He made a thoughtful noise, sitting back with his arms crossed. "The kind of power a queen has, say?" She felt her face grow warm, but she didn't take her eyes away from him, and after a moment he said, "I'm sorry, that was rather rude of me."

"Yes it was," she said. "But it's completely understandable." He turned his head a few degrees in a questioning motion. "It's not an easy thing you're doing, choosing a wife, and the next queen of your kingdom. It would be a little foolish of you not to ask hard questions."

"You're very gracious," he said. "Perhaps it would be fair, then, to invite you to ask me a hard question."

She didn't have to think very long; their conversation had served to distract her thoughts from what troubled her about the morning's excitement, but it was still something on her mind. She asked him abruptly, "Have you ever been enchanted?"

His jaw tightened, and he looked at her almost warily, as he inhaled. His reaction gave her the simple answer – _Yes_. If it had been _no_, he'd have just said that. But he seemed to be deciding whether to tell her, and how much. She supposed, on further reflection, that it could be a very personal question, and opened her mouth to retract it.

"Yes," he said. "Twice." He looked at her for another pair of heartbeats before saying, "Love-spells, both times."

"Oh," she said, a little disconcerted. That was very personal – and also highly significant, given their circumstances. She recognized a little of what had gone into his decision to trust her, to tell her, and felt proud and a little awed at his confidence. "You – probably don't want to talk about it," she added tentatively, giving him a polite way out of the topic, while still hinting at her willingness to listen.

He grimaced. "It wasn't really what you'd think – some infatuated lady of the court desperate for my attention." She smirked at his tone of sardonic self-deprecation; otherwise his comment might have sounded quite arrogant. "Sophia Tirmawr was a sidhe – a faerie. Her father had promised the soul of a prince, in exchange for Sophia's return to Avalon and immortality."

She stared at him for a moment. "You're serious," she said.

"Never a dull moment in Camelot," he quipped, but she saw that he'd told the absolute truth.

Well. Accepting that, she guessed that the sidhe couldn't expect such a thing to be given freely for the asking. "They made you fall in love with her?" she asked. Love meant, she supposed, being willing to risk your life to save the other person's – but to give your soul so she could live forever was a bit of a stretch.

"It was a combination, I understand," he explained, "love spell and obedience spell."

"What happened?" she asked, before guessing and he confirmed it by saying at the same time as her, "Merlin."

Arthur sighed. "The second time prompted my father to order me to marry. Last autumn, during a peace conference, one of the other kings had his sorcerer enchant me to fall in love with the daughter of another, supposing the talks would break down into war over the affair."

"Merlin, again," she said, and he nodded. She couldn't help remembering the feeling of utter terror as she ran from men sworn to protect her, sure that she was going to die, that her death would cause a great deal of conflict between Lionys and Camelot, that Arthur would be in graver danger, for not knowing about Mary's involvement. She tried to imagine what it must have been like for Arthur, realizing that he'd been meant to die, or to start a war. "I'm so sorry," she said. "That must have felt-"

"Incredible." He sounded wistful. And his gaze was on the bit of sky visible over the balcony railing, so she had a moment to cover the surprise of her reaction. "To be absolutely certain that this is the girl for you. To give your heart wholly, without reservation and without fear, completely confident that bliss is secured for the rest of your life…" He trailed off. She was incapable of saying a single word, if she could even think of one to say. He threw her a glance and a half-smile that mocked himself, again. "And then the enchantment is lifted and that feeling is gone and you realize it was all a lie and what a shambles you've made of everything. You feel responsible, even thought it wasn't your fault, humiliated and stupid, and there are still consequences to face and some small part of you…"

_Still wants to be in love_, Gwen thought.

She understood. No matter how much she admired, dreamed about, sighed over and enjoyed watching Lancelot, the knowledge that he'd keep whatever feelings he might have for his lord's daughter locked deep and tight inside no matter how much encouragement he was given, made her hold back. And how was it possible, she asked herself, to give your heart, unless the one you're giving it to receives it?

Arthur shifted in his seat to face and lean over the game table between them again, returning them to the level of polite acquaintances. "It is your move, my lady," he reminded her courteously.

…**..*…..**

Guest reviewer: Glad you liked protective Gwaine and Merlin – at the same time and over the same person! Gwaine always goes protective over Merlin, so I thought it might be amusing to have him do the same over someone else, and facing off with Merlin!… if only for a moment. And hooray if I'm getting the budding romances right! And not to give too much away, Freya will not be cursed, I promise. But that's all I promise.

LCT: Glad you enjoyed Gwen's time as a deer… or, well, you know what I mean. Thought it might be a cute coincidence that Merlin meets his lady and Arthur's in the same sort of situation (required magical medical attention)… there's nothing to break the ice with your best friend's girl like a near-death experience! (That's sarcasm, of course, don't try this at home…)


	6. Lingering

**Chapter 6: Lingering**

Gwen was almost sure she was going to lose the game. Arthur was concentrating on his strategy and moves in order to keep the conversation on safer, less thought-provoking ground. The knock on the door, a casual courtesy since it stood open, was sometime of a relief.

"My lord," Percival said, "Lady Guinevere?"

Arthur stood, and Gwen motioned for the knight to enter, so she wouldn't have to crane her neck looking at him in a position mostly behind her. "What news?" she said.

"The sorceress attacked, in the West Half of the city," Percival told them, and Arthur took an involuntary step forward, his jaw tight and his eyes hard, his hands in fists at his side. Percival inclined his head to the prince and added, "Your sorcerer defeated her. We have just brought her body to the palace in preparation for the disposal of both corpses together."

Gwen sighed, sinking back in her seat. It was terrible to think of the kindly old servant and her son dead – but they had made their choices. Terrible ones, with terrible consequences. She felt bad that Merlin had been the one to deal with them both. And thankful, at the same time, that he was strong enough and skillful enough and willing, to do it for them.

"And Merlin?" Arthur asked.

"Sleeping." At the prince's look of blatant incredulity, Percival glanced at Gwen. "The man he stayed with last night, the man who reported on the death of Mary Collins, he's a friend of mine. We figured on letting Merlin rest – he's earned it, hasn't he - and he'll be looked after, there."

Arthur gave her a look of indecision, and she said, "He'll still send you that message when he wakes, won't he?"

"I should go see him," Arthur said. There was a moment of awkward silence, in which Percival looked again at Gwen and neither of them repeated the obvious, he's sleeping – what did Arthur think he'd be able to do, other than interrupt that rest and wake him up. The prince caught the glance and amended, "Well, then, could you please ask Leon to check on him?"

Percival gave a brief polite bow. "Yes, my lord."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya spent the afternoon watching Merlin sleep. More or less, between odd jobs around the house, quieter chores. So of course it happened that he woke the first time she was out of sight for more than a few minutes.

She pushed her way through the door, trying to be as quiet as possible, trying not to spill any of the well-water from her bucket. She glanced over at Gwaine's cot – after this long, she hadn't really expected much change, though logically he couldn't sleep forever – and stopped.

He was sitting up on the edge of the cot, feet on the floor, elbows on his knees, head resting on the heel of one hand. Motionless, and she wondered if he'd heard her come in at all.

There was something different about him. The confidence and determination she'd seen in that brief instant he'd paused in his pursuit of Thomas through the twisted alleyways was diminished, while the humility was more pronounced, and the loyalty was almost overwhelmingly strong. But the _magic_…

His shoulders were slumped in a weary kind of way, in spite of the hours he'd spent in slumber – then again, she did not know what it felt like to be responsible for another's death, justified or not. Gwaine had, she knew, though she'd never asked to hear particulars; he didn't seem to regret the death of his enemy so much as the necessity of it, that it had fallen to him once more to shoulder that responsibility.

Maybe that was what she saw in Merlin.

"You're awake," she ventured, and he jumped like she'd thrown something at him, reacting startled and wary and taking a moment, she realized, to recognize his surroundings. And her.

"What happened?" he said, his voice so raspy she almost couldn't understand the words. "With Mary? You're all right, aren't you?"  
She set her bucket of water down next to the storage barrel in the corner, retrieving the dipper to fill a cup for him. He swallowed a mouthful dutifully, then rested the cup on his knees as she leaned her hip against the side of the table.

"Mary's dead," she told him softly. He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she added, "When Gwaine came home, he found her body – in the alley." She didn't mention the condition of the corpse; Gwaine had used few enough words, and yet still too many. Burned, had been one. Unrecognizable, another. He hadn't realized it _was_ Mary until she'd told him what happened. Then he'd taken her oldest blanket, and ordered her to remain inside until the matter was dealt with.

Merlin's eyes, dark with exhaustion in his pale face, shifted past her as he processed the information, then nodded in numb acceptance. "Where is he now?" His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

"He went with the guards, and – Mary's body," she said. After Gwaine had moved Merlin to his own cot, stripped off his jacket and washed him up a bit. Dirt and blood on his hands, and neither of them speculated to the other about how that had come about; his errand to apprehend Thomas the sorcerer-assassin was explanation enough.

He looked down into the water in the cup, then up into Freya's eyes, blank confusion on his face. "How long have I been here?" he asked.

"A little over five hours," she told him, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "They decided… since you were only sleeping, just to let you sleep. You'd earned it, they said." She gave him a smile.

"They?"

"The knights."

"And Arthur?" He pushed himself up from the cot carefully, as if he half-expected to fall, perhaps still physically disoriented by his experiences and the long period of unconscious sleep.

"I'm sure they've told him by now – what happened, and where you are, and that you're all right." She watched him closely, determined to do her best to catch him if he did fall, even if he ended up knocking her to the ground again. He took two steps, then three, and put his hand out blindly to brace himself on the table. "Merlin – _are_ you all right?" He gave his head a quick little shake. "What is it?" she added, more concerned.

"The magic." He lifted his eyes to her and offered a tired smile. "I had it out with Thomas this morning for a while – well, with Thomas and Mary, both. She was with the hunting party. In revenge for… Thomas' death, she put the illusion of a deer onto the Lady Guinevere." Freya gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. "No, she was fine," Merlin added, forestalling her question. "But that required more magic, to reverse the enchantment and heal Gwen, and then the transportation spell to return here, and then Mary…" He stopped and squinted down, as if trying to figure out why he'd said so much.

Poor boy. "No wonder you were tired," Freya said. And hungry, too? "I'm – just about to start dinner, if – if you'd like to stay? Gwaine should be home…" Sometime. Although she wouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd passed by the tavern for a drink first. The expression in his eyes and on his face as he stood looking down on Merlin unconscious in his bed – the black of his hair in sharp contrast with the white of his skin – was so very much the same as how he'd looked down at Gareth, she knew Gwaine had been thinking of the younger brother they'd lost.

Tension seemed to drop from Merlin's body, and the smile he gave her was beautiful. "I would love to stay," he told her. "But… not very late. And I should send that message to Arthur."

When he didn't move, she turned to lift the inkwell and quill from the shelf for him, and rummaged in her little collection of spare parchment for a piece small enough to tie to a pigeon's leg. Still he hesitated, and she slid the bench to him. He dropped onto it and leaned over the table, pushing his fingers into his hair and then gripping it. She watched him for a moment, then turned back to her own work.

Now that he was awake, and because they no longer needed to fear an attack, she'd decided to move the honeyflower and motherwort to the roof as well, and all of her plants needed water. She waited for Merlin to go to the roof, for the sake of his company, or to continue to keep an eye on him – why, though, she couldn't answer, maybe the habit of the afternoon hours – but he took twice as long writing that short note to his prince as he had the night before.

She took the honeyflower in the crook of one elbow and gripped the rim of the other pot so the long stalk of the motherwort could rest against her shoulder, and led the way up the steep and narrow steps to the roof. He followed more slowly, his head down and one hand on the wall for balance or support. And when she stopped at the table to release and re-arrange her burden, he went to the parapet at the front of the street without speaking to her. If he spoke the spell to call the pigeon aloud, she didn't hear it. She did wonder if it was the same bird, when it flapped to a perch beside him.

When she returned to the roof with a bucketful of the rain-water from the barrel at the corner of the building, he was still seated on the front parapet overlooking the street, his legs dangling over the outside edge, and his shoulders slumped as if he felt the weight of ages. There was a bit of darkness around him, or in him, and once again she saw that his magic was – different. Affected. Unsettled. As she dipped an appropriate amount of water for each of her plants she saw that he still seemed oblivious to his surroundings – nothing in the street caught his attention. She wanted to ask again, but felt awkward questioning the wellbeing of a powerful sorcerer, or the health of a physician's apprentice.

Or – maybe that was it.

It was hard enough for someone like Gwaine – or one of the knights, or Merlin's prince – to take a life in defense of himself or another innocent, but for someone like Merlin it was probably worse. He'd been trained in and was studying further the healing arts. Maybe that was the turmoil she sensed from his magic, used for such opposite purposes in a short amount of time.

She approached him quietly; he was studying the palms of his hands lying unmoving in his lap. She seated herself on the parapet next to him but facing inward, not quite close enough for her hip to touch his.

"Do you believe in destiny?" she said, with gentle good humor using the question he'd posed to her the night before.

He snorted, and shook his head. "Sometimes," he said, lifting his eyes and turning his head to look at the palace towers rising over the city in the near distance, "I don't know what to believe."

Shyly, she reached to take his hand in both of hers, cradle it in her lap. His hands matched the rest of him, she thought, fingers long and lean, knobby bones, unexpected strength. She brushed her fingertips across the calluses on his palm, the insides of his fingers. It was not such a surprising thing to find, after all, evidence of hard labor on the hands of a man capable of – she believed – doing almost anything and everything with magic, when you remembered the humility that was such a part of his character.

There was something else, though, that whispered to her of innocence sacrificed.

"It is worth it, though, isn't it?" she said.

He turned to her with a swift mild shock, and the blue of his eyes was bright with unshed tears. She wanted to do something for him to make him feel better, say something to comfort him, show him… She wasn't quite brave enough to spread her arms for another embrace. Maybe he was no longer a stranger, but he was not a native of her city, his presence only temporary. His relationship with his prince placed him in regular company with nobility – compared to whom, she was nobody.

So she only rested her head against his shoulder, her face turned away, offering companionable but limited contact. So it would not be misunderstood to the embarrassment of either; she had not forgotten Mary's accusation.

He turned slightly to accommodate her, and after a moment laid his head down on her shoulder, also. For all his slumped posture, there was tension in every muscle, but as he drew in one breath after another against the collar of her dress and her neck and the side of her hair, she felt that strain slowly fade. And she was reasonably sure she smelled a bit better than yesterday, when he'd pulled her from Halig's cage.

"Yes," he mumbled against her. "It was worth it." After a moment he added, "Freya… I am glad for these two days."

She didn't try to unravel hidden meaning from his words, to assume any more than the honest truth in his words, but answered with equal candor, "I am too, Merlin."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen tested her ankle walking across the room. Enid had returned ostensibly to help her prepare for dinner, but since she didn't intend to change, there wasn't anything to be done.

There was stiffness and a mild ache, but she could manage on her own. She'd be careful about the stairs, and since the morning's confrontation had prompted her father to postpone the banquet for another night, there would be no dancing, no standing, no strolling required of her. She'd be fine.

It was Arthur she was concerned about.

After his admission of his experience with enchantments, he'd seemed to retreat back into proper courtly behavior – kind and correct and honest, but… She hadn't known what to say. To reassure him that he hadn't made a mistake confiding his feelings. To sympathize with the concern – that everyone held to a certain extent, it seemed to her – that true, reciprocated love would somehow pass by. She'd answered in the same way, the civility of mere acquaintances once again. But it left her dissatisfied, somehow.

"Where are you going?" Enid asked as Gwen made her way slowly but determinedly to the door.

"I think I'll offer to escort Prince Arthur to dinner tonight," Gwen said.

"Do you want me to walk with you?" the maid offered, pausing as she swept the stone floor.

"No, I can make it."

"It's early yet," Enid reminded her.

She gave the older girl a cheerful smile. "Then I'll have plenty of time to get there."

It seemed a little movement helped with the stiffness. She traveled the hallway at a reasonable speed, and negotiated the stairway with caution. By the time she reached the door to the guest chamber below hers, where Arthur was staying, she flattered herself that the limp wasn't even noticeable.

Pleased with herself, she rapped her knuckles on the door, and heard Arthur's voice call out, _Come in_. That answered the question of whether he was alone or not; whatever servant had been assigned to him upon his arrival was not in attendance to answer the door.

She turned the handle to disengage the latch and pushed through – and froze very nearly mid-step.

The prince was not dressed for dinner, yet. In fact he was almost not dressed at all.

Shirtless and barefoot, he stood at the wash basin on the commode with his back to her, just hanging the towel he'd used over the bar. It wasn't the display of his muscles that caught her attention, though they were well-defined, bunching and stretching as he moved, beneath skin pale and smooth and somehow perfectly matched to the golden sheen of his hair.

It was the scar that shocked her speechless, as he turned saying negligently, "Leon, I thought –" He stopped abruptly, seeing her, but since her eyes were on his side and not his face, she had no idea of his expression – embarrassment or outraged dignity or... It was a thick scar, and white; as she moved closer she could see a deeper lavender beneath the surface, fine striations crossing the width of the mark that started near his navel and descended past his belt where it rode his left hip.

"_Arthur_," she whispered, reaching to trace it in disbelief.

"Dinas Emrys," he said in a low mild tone. She glanced up right into the light blue of his eyes and he gave her half a smile. "I told you he saved my life."

"But –" she said. "But _this_…" she passed her thumb over the scar, tugging at his belt to find the other end of the mark, just below and outside his hipbone.

"Morgana said –" He cleared his throat. "It looked like someone had tried to chop me in half."

She felt inexplicable tears filling her eyes. She knew he'd been but a boy when he went to that battle, but she hadn't realized what a near thing his death had been. It seemed to her a tragedy of the highest order, that such a young man – strong and handsome, yes, skillful and smart, maybe, kind and wise – all the makings of a great king, might have ended his life before it had really begun. His loss would have hurt more than his family. More than Camelot. All of Albion would have suffered irreparable loss at his untimely death.

She remembered that the same young sorcerer had healed her own wound, just that morning, leaving no outward indication at all. "He's gotten better at healing magic, I suppose," she said.

"Because of the scar?" Arthur said. "No, that was… my father didn't give him the chance, at the time, and later… it just never seemed important. It's a good reminder."

"Of what?" she asked.

He gave her another half-smile, which again took the arrogance from his words and added a shattering sincerity, "The cost of destiny."

And any other lordling prating about destiny she'd dismiss immediately as intolerably conceited. For Arthur, it was only the truth, and because it awed her a bit, she dropped her eyes from the clear frankness of his gaze, and realized what she was doing.

Oh, dear heavens, the prince was half naked. She'd somehow forgotten that in her concern over the evidence of the injury. And she was touching him! She snatched her hand away, trying to erase from her memory the warm smooth tautness of his skin, the hint of hard muscle beneath. Trying to deny the irresistible curious desire to run her fingers over his shoulders, through the fine golden hair on his chest and –

She closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake and took an unsteady half-step backward.

"Guinevere," he said, his voice little more than a throaty whisper. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak or to look into his eyes. "I want to… but I'm not sure that… we probably shouldn't…"

It was the uncertainty in his tone that coaxed her to look at him. His eyes traced her lips, then searched hers again, as if for permission.

One kiss. That one stolen, hurried mashing of her lips against Lancelot's beautiful mouth was her only experience with this. Her heart thudded in her chest as a snarl of questions and emotions and doubts tumbled through her mind. His stammered fragments were eloquent compared to the jumble that might have come out of her mouth had she tried to speak.

In the end, she didn't remember making the decision at all. She looked at his mouth and suddenly everything was simple and straightforward and she stepped in to him at the same time as he did to her.

And yelped, jumping back at the sudden spark of ice against sensitive skin.

"What is it? I'm sorry," he blurted, concern flooding his face as he pulled back.

She felt a little heat rise to her face with her smile. How absolutely absurd it was, but - "Your belt buckle," she said, pointing at the offending bit of metal just below his navel. Then dragging her eyes upward from the hint of another sprinkling of fascinating golden hair. "It's _freezing_."

His mouth fell open slightly, and his eyes dropped to the skin exposed on _her_ belly, between the amethyst bodice and trousers. And for some reason, that made her heart pound again.

He slid his left hand over the buckle and closed the distance between them again, slowly, giving her the chance to reconsider and retreat.

She didn't. It probably wasn't smart, under the circumstances, and odds were that she'd regret it later, but…

He reached to brush the backs of his fingers lightly over the curve of her cheek and she shivered at the tenderness of his touch. She lifted her hand to cup his – bigger and rougher and stronger – as he began to drop it. And so she was still holding it as he bent his head over hers and she tipped her chin up to bring her lips to his.

She felt his breath on her face; the first kiss was delicate and pure, inquisitive. Experimental, almost. He drew back fractionally, but not enough to break the contact, grazing the curve of her lips with his own before increasing the pressure. The kiss deliberately explored, undemanding and patient, and she surprised herself with the urge to taste it – the very tip of her tongue to the lowest curve of his lip. The slightest tantalizing hint of salt, and he responded with a brief gentle pull on her upper lip.

She felt the backs of his fingers move subtly against the sensitive skin of her belly, as he protected her from his buckle, and it started delightful ripples of reaction that spread outward as well as a deep slow heat, as though the sun was rising inside of her.

His mouth lingered on hers, and she had time to catch her breath and govern her racing pulse before he stepped back. The blue of his eyes was shaded with emotion for a moment as he stared at her. Then he straightened and shifted his gaze about a foot to her right, as if struggling to recollect scattered thoughts.

"Guinevere," he said. "I…"

She said nothing. Not to apologize, or excuse, or encourage. But whatever he might have said was lost in a sudden flutter of wings and the purring call of a pigeon on the balcony ledge.

"Shall I get that?' she offered, deliberately keeping her eyes on his face. "You can… finish." He nodded and turned away.

She walked to the balcony slowly and carefully, mindful of the weakness of her ankle and the fact that the floor seemed to be several inches below her soles. The fresh air, cooler now near sunset, cut through the pleasant haze and returned to her a measure of control. The pigeon bobbed as it stepped along the railing - sure enough with the white roll of a message on its leg - but when she extended her hands, it flutter-hopped several feet away. After the third time, Gwen didn't try again, just waited for Arthur.

_I kissed Prince Arthur,_ she told herself, and didn't quite believe it. _I kissed the prince of Camelot, and for no other reason than we both wanted to._ She didn't quite believe that either. And then there was, _and I liked it_…

He joined her on the balcony in a plain but fine white shirt and a jacket of deep red velvet, quilted with tiny brass studs; the collar was high and he hadn't yet buttoned it over the shirt. He glanced at her before reaching for the pigeon, but she could not tell what feeling might be uppermost in his heart. Once the little scrap was detached from the slender twig-like leg and Arthur placed it back on the rail, it spread its wings in a flurry of escape to free flight once more.

They watched it go, and Gwen remarked, "I guess he doesn't need an answer, this time?"

Arthur unrolled the small message and read it through, then repeated it aloud as a small wrinkle formed between his eyes. "_Arthur. I'm sorry about today. I won't see you tonight, but I'm sure you've been told that the witch is no longer a threat to anyone. Don't worry about me, you'll understand everything in the morning. See you soon. Merlin_."

"So he's all right," Gwen said.

Arthur made a noise of incomplete agreement. "I wish he'd come here, though," he said, lifting his head to stare out across the rooftops of the city, beginning to blend together in the soft dusk.

"Perhaps he's – more comfortable? staying in the city with this family, than he would be here in the palace?" Gwen suggested. In her brief meeting with the young sorcerer, she had noticed his choice of dress, the straightforward manner that could be at odds with more courtly behavior. Not that anyone here would hold that against him or think less of him for his casual forthrightness, but if he felt uncomfortable with the formality of noble company, she had no desire to urge that on him.

"You mean he might be lingering in the city to avoid dressing for dinner?" Arthur said in mock-outrage.

"Perhaps there's a girl in this family," Gwen said lightly.

The prince's sideways smile was ironic. "Merlin doesn't really notice girls," he told her.

She didn't quite dare to say, _And you?_

He sighed, crumpling the little scrap in his fist and affecting to shake it in the direction of his young friend, somewhere in the city. "Until tomorrow, then," he said, making it sound like a partially-playful threat. Then he gave her a little bow, and extended his arm. "Dinner, my lady?" he said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was Freya's idea to go back inside, in part because she was half-afraid Merlin would take a tumble off the parapet. She had nothing like the power evidently at his command; she had no way of knowing whether it was normal for the amount of magic he'd expended to leave him looking tired and betraying the slightest hint of dizziness at times. If he caught her looking at him he gave her a smile of reassurance that was almost intimate, a whole conversation without needing words.

He'd gone back to the quill and parchment at the table while she took a twig from the fire and lit the candles all around the room. This time, it seemed, he had no trouble finding the words to set down, scratching with hardly a pause to dip the quill until the whole sheet was full.

"Who are you writing to?" she asked, returning to the table to cut the cold roast thin, and the bread thick, and the cheese in chunks, in preparation for their dinner.

"My mother," he answered absently. "For one." He looked up at her and she tipped her head inquisitively. "All this," he explained, his face softening. "It makes me think, how lucky I was – I am – to have her. Arthur never knew his mother. Lady de Gransse died when her children were small, and yours… It just makes me want to… tell her some things. That's all."

She wondered whether it would be inappropriate for her to send her own thanks to the special woman who had the raising of the young sorcerer who sat at her table. Night and day difference to Mary Collins, almost certainly, whose son had somehow thought nothing of committing murder, and who resorted to violent revenge, herself.

"Where is your home?" she asked.

"Camelot."

"Your mother lives in Camelot?" she said quizzically – surely he'd only been gone a few days, not even a week. And he was writing as though he hadn't spoken to her in months.

"Ah, no." He realized the misunderstanding, and said, "Ealdor?" She shook her head; she'd never heard of that town, before. "It's a small village, near Dinas Emrys. A few fields, a couple of cows. Nothing special."

"You'll have to call an eagle to get that letter to her," she commented, reaching to tap what he'd written, and he rolled it quickly.

"Arthur will make sure it gets to her," he said, tucking the roll under the edge of the plate she'd set nearest him.

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear from you," she told him.

He sighed and leaned sideways at the table, his head on his hand and his elbow sprawled across the rough wooden surface. "It's one of my regrets, actually, that I didn't… get to see her much, after I left Ealdor." He watched her arrange the wedges of pale yellow cheese on a small serving platter, then suddenly straightened on the bench and shivered, rubbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve.

"Goose walk over your grave?" she said teasingly.

"No – sorry – sunset," he explained, a husky note of strain in his voice that warned her not to question.

"Well, we can eat now, or we can wait for Gwaine," she said. "Are you hungry?"

He ignored her question to give her one of those sweet-yet-sly smiles she could not help responding to. "Now, if you could have anything to eat, with this, what would it be?"

She looked down at the simple meal she'd spread around his writing materials and considered. A spot of color, maybe, and something fresh. Juicy. Fruit? "Strawberries," she said, leaning across the table, saying very plainly, _I dare you_, with her tone.

He cupped his hands together, paused to give her a challenging grin, then whispered into the gap between his thumbs. His eyes glowed briefly and he opened his hands on his offering – a dainty red rosebud.

"That's not strawberries," she said, trying not to laugh. Still it was impressive, though he was studying the blossom with a look of bewildered chagrin. As if he'd intended on the fruit, and knew himself capable of conjuring it, and yet somehow his magic had betrayed him by producing a rose instead.

She wondered if the switch was completely random, or whether it was an unconscious message for one or both of them.

"It's the right color." His eyes on the little flower, he shrugged to himself, then stood and rounded the table.

She kept still, her eyes fixed on his, as he reached to tuck the rosebud into her hair, behind her ear. "Why are you so good to me?" she blurted.

"Because – I can't help it." He frowned at himself as though his mouth was saying more than he'd intended, and tried to smile at her at the same time. "I don't know. I like you."

She tried to control her involuntary blush. He didn't mean it like _that_.

The door opened with the characteristic vehemence that told her of Gwaine's arrival before she could look or recognize him. Merlin retreated to his place on the bench in silence.

She said to Gwaine reproachfully, "You're late."

"Yeah," he said. "Good to see you're awake, mate," he added to Merlin, who glanced up and grinned but said nothing further. "Nasty business," Gwaine continued. He draped his jacket on the hook on the wall beside the door, then unbuckled his swordbelt to hang up also. He washed at the basin in the corner as she slid onto the bench opposite Merlin. "Good riddance, though, that's what I have to say." He gave Merlin's shoulder a comradely slap as he straddled the other end of the bench. "Now I owe you _two_." He reached for the bread, and so missed the shadow that passed over Merlin's face.

She wondered at that, and at the unintended quirk of his magic that gave her a rose instead of berries.

"This morning," Merlin said to Gwaine. "And Halig?"

Gwaine gave him a wicked grin. "We took them by surprise," he said. "The slaver and a few others are in Lord Lionel's dungeon. Half a dozen of his men weren't so lucky."

"You're all right, though?" Merlin said, and Gwaine huffed indignantly in answer.

"Where were you, this afternoon?" she asked her brother. For the time he'd been gone, she'd expected him to come home stumbling and raucous, smelling of hops and smoke. "Not the tavern?"

"Not for long," he said breezily, admitting the weakness without discomfort. "Old man Shefydd came in, asking had anyone seen Nell, she's gone missing again."

Freya explained to Merlin, "Shefydd and Nell live next to us," pointing to the wall behind her curtained sleeping alcove. "She's very sweet but a little vague, since she's gotten older. She wanders away about once a fortnight, and then can't find her way home. Last time it was the next day, when someone alerted the guard, and she'd gotten to the East Half without any memory of crossing the main street."

Merlin gave Gwaine a questioning look. "Should we go help look for her?"

He shook his head, swallowing his bite before speaking. "Shef has half a dozen men helping him, and the guard. She'll turn up. Now, the man next to me in the tavern said that _his_ wife –"

Freya watched and listened as her older brother, lively and talkative even sober, proceeded to regale them with story after story, rolling from one to the next without any need for a connection, it seemed to her. She was used to it, but she smiled to see Merlin attentive and amused, as though he'd wanted nothing more that evening than to sit with the two of them and their hearty if coarse meal, listening to stories that were also hearty if a bit coarse. He didn't interrupt, and betrayed no impatience or offense whatsoever, though he did occasionally meet her glance with a small smile that caused his eyes to crinkle at the corners. As if the three of them were old friends, and the two of them long used to sitting through Gwaine's stories with tolerant fondness.

"Gwaine, all your stories begin, _I was once in a tavern when_," she finally interjected, rolling her eyes.

She noticed that Merlin's strange melancholy - that she'd attributed to the draining of energy after using a great deal of magic, or the burden of enemy deaths on his conscience - had seemed to worsen rather than improve with time. His smiles were fewer and more weary, his rousing from lethargy to show interest a blink slower; the candlelight seemed to emphasize the purple shadow beneath his eyes. Gwaine, who had not stopped talking since they'd sat down, had managed to consume more of the meal than his audience; Merlin had seemed content to absently shred his meager dinner on his plate rather than eat heartily, though he'd had as busy a day as Gwaine, and probably without the noon meal. She hoped that, in spite of the long hours of rest that afternoon, he only needed a good night's sleep, and maybe was just too polite to interrupt to take his leave.

"That's not true," Gwaine protested, sharing a mischievous grin with their guest. "I have a few that start, _I knew a woman once who_… or _Once I had to fight my way out of_…" He leaned to nudge Merlin with his shoulder, and snagged the last chunk of cheese. She rose to begin clearing away.

Merlin murmured, "Two hours until midnight." His eyes were on his jacket, hung between Gwaine's and her cloak; his fingers closed around the rolled letter he'd written earlier.

"You can stay the night here, again," Gwaine said, glancing up at her. No, not her, exactly, but the rose in her hair.

"No, I cannot," Merlin said distinctly, pushing himself up, as if the invitation provided the impetus he needed. He paused and added to her, as if trying to soften the resolution, "I wish I could stay."

Gwaine followed him to the door, watching as he pulled his jacket on clumsily and tucked his letter away. "You'll be in Lionys for a while yet, yes? You're welcome to stop by anytime."

Merlin paused, his hand on the door, and looked from Gwaine to her, a moment of sheer aching longing on his face before he put on a wry smile. A moment and a glimpse which served to confuse her – what did he want so badly? And why was he resisting it so hard? If there had been anything about her to attract a man – beauty or wealth, if she was clever or witty or quite strong in magic as well – she might have guessed that he was denying himself the exploration of a possible relationship because of the transitory nature of their association, or the prior claim of his prince, but…

"I do appreciate the offer," he said only.

She set down the plate and followed Gwaine as Merlin ducked his head and yanked the door open, almost staggering out into the darkness of the night. She stood on the open threshold, and shivered as Merlin put his hand on the wall of the next building and leaned on it, his head still down.

"Merlin, mate, that's the wrong way," Gwaine said, going to his side. "The palace is south." His tone was cheerful enough, but the glance he gave her over Merlin's shoulder had her stepping into the alley to join them. "Maybe I should walk with you, yeah?"

"Right, south," Merlin said, pushing away from the wall to stand a little straighter, still facing Gwaine as Freya came alongside. "No, I'm fine to go alone."

"It's a nice night," Gwaine remarked, still indefatigably cheerful. "Nothing to settle a good meal like a leisurely walk."

Merlin didn't move, didn't look at her. "No," he said stubbornly.

Gwaine cocked his head. "Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling us?" he said. Freya thought suddenly that her brother must have noticed the same thing she did, at dinner, that his stories were meant to cover for Merlin, and to exhaust the time so that the younger man would agree to stay.

Freya spoke her thought as it occurred to her. "You're not all right, are you, Merlin?" Both young men looked at her. She continued, "Whatever Mary did – whatever she was going to do to me… you're not all right."

He didn't deny it. Gwaine said with dismay, "Why didn't you tell us before?"

"Wouldn't do any good," Merlin mumbled. "There's nothing to be done, except…"

"Except what? Leave?" Gwaine said.

"Gwaine, please – I don't want to part from you like this," Merlin said, and a note of desperation entered his voice. "You have to let me go. Alone."

"Sorry, we're not going to do that. That's not the way I pay off my debts, mate. Freya? what do you think?"  
"We could take him to Finna's," Freya suggested, and explained to Merlin, "She's a healer, she can help." He shook his head violently before she was through speaking.

"Good idea." Gwaine leaned his face closer to Merlin's in the faint torchlight, and gave him a flat grin. "You'll have to use magic on me to stop me."

Merlin took a step back and raised his palm slightly. "Don't think I won't," he said, "for your own good."

Gwaine glanced at her, then reached to pluck the rosebud from behind her ear, and showed it to him. "Are you going to use magic on _her_?"

Merlin looked at the red blossom a long moment, then met her eyes. "If I agree to go with Gwaine, will you promise to stay inside your house til dawn?" She lifted her hands to her hips in answer, giving him her best _you're late and you smell like ale_ glare. He gave a cynical chuckle. "Bring your sword, then, Gwaine," he said to her brother.

"Why?"

"Just in case," Merlin said. "To protect yourself and your sister."

"From who?" Freya said, as Gwaine loped back to retrieve his swordbelt and shut their door.

Merlin's eyes glittered in the faint lamplight. "From me."

**A/N: Some dialogue again from ep. 2.9 "The Lady of the Lake."**

LCT – Glad you liked Gwen's recovery… and everything it led to? *nudge nudge, wink wink, know what I mean?* And a few more hints of what happened to Mary, and to Merlin…


	7. The Second Vision

**Chapter 7: The Second Vision**

Finna used to be their mother's best friend. She was a sweet and uncomplicated middle-aged lady with gray-streaked dark hair, wrinkles from worrying about her patients around her mouth and between her eyebrows, and a habitually childlike wide-eyed expression.

She greeted their arrival, late as it was, in her nightgown and a dark blue shawl, candle in hand, surprise turning into awe at the introduction of the sorcerer.

"Emrys," she said, her eyebrows drawing upward into points. "Merlin of Dinas Emrys? It is an honor to meet you!" She dropped a curtsy that Merlin interrupted in hasty embarrassment.

"Please, it's just Merlin," he said, and she led him to the chair where her visitors usually sat to discuss their ills and wait for her to concoct a solution. She sat opposite him, their knees touching; the light of the candle placed on the table at their elbows flickered over the shelves on her wall, reflecting from the round sides of the glass jars, creating shadows for those made of clay.

"A curse, you said?" Finna reached forward with her plump palm toward his heart, but not touching him. Her eyes glowed, and she made a thoughtful noise, before positioning both hands to either side of his head, just brushing the unkempt ends of his black hair. Once again her eyes gleamed gold. "Oh, there it is," she murmured. Merlin's expression held nothing but calm interest. "Mm, that's a nasty one, that is."

"What is it?" Gwaine said, hanging over the back of Merlin's chair.

Finna dropped her hands, but didn't break the connection of her gaze to Merlin's. "But you already know what it is, don't you," she said to him gently. "Who laid the curse, if I may ask?"

"Mary Collins," Freya said. That surprised the older woman into looking up, thoughtful, then considering. "Can you do anything for him?"

"Not I," Finna said. Freya's heart dropped; Merlin's shoulders slumped fractionally with a small sigh, as though he'd allowed a hope in spite of himself. "But Alator might."

Gwaine exchanged a glance with Freya. "We should take him there tonight?" he said.

"Oh, immediately," Finna said composedly. "How long do you have, Master Emrys?"

"Just Merlin," he sighed. "Midnight."

The older woman put her hand up again, and this time touched Merlin's face, cupping his cheek as a mother does her child. "_He_ doesn't know, does he?" she said to him kindly.

"Who?" Gwaine said. "Me? Know what?"

"He can't," Merlin said, his voice breaking slightly though his expression remained resolute.

"He will have to," Finna advised. "Sooner or later." She looked up at Gwaine. "To Alator, then, as quickly as possible. And before midnight, unless you don't mind killing him yourself." Gwaine looked more startled than Merlin; Freya thought he hadn't taken the sorcerer at his word, before. "I will come to see you in the morning," she added, patting Merlin's cheek before withdrawing her hand.

His blue eyes were bright with unfallen tears; he nodded only, and stumbled as he pushed himself up from the chair.

"What's this curse, then?" Gwaine said conversationally, taking Merlin's sleeve as the younger man tripped over the threshold, Freya following behind.

"Can't just wait and see for yourself?" Merlin returned. Freya looked back to see Finna framed in her doorway, watching them out of sight, until they turned into another alley.

"Let's just say I'd like to know the preliminary symptoms," Gwaine said amiably. "So I have some warning before I have to run you through."

Merlin snorted, bumping into him and then the wall of the alley before Gwaine caught and steadied him. "Trust me, if the curse starts to take hold, you will know." Walking behind them, Freya shivered at the grim tone of his voice. He had to be all right. He _had to_.

It was even later when they reached Alator's home on the outskirts of the East Half of the city, but he was still fully dressed as he answered the door, lamplight spilling out around him. A bald man with a heavy jaw, hard eyes, and a slight foreign burr in his speech, he wore a light blue tunic, hooded, long-sleeved, and knee-length, over darker trousers and high polished boots.

"Emrys," he said, after Gwaine had introduced and explained the reason for their visit for the second time that evening. The runes tattooed around his neck were so old they looked faded, visible above the folds of the lowered hood as he turned his piercing scrutiny on the young sorcerer. "An unfortunate reason for our meeting. What sort of curse was it?"

"Transformation," Merlin said. "Daily, and permanent."

The bald man crooked his finger, and they followed him into his house. It was not unlike Finna's, Freya was interested to note, but instead of jars and pots of clay and glass upon his shelves, Alator had books, tomes and pamphlets and scrolls. Through a doorway at the back of the room only partially concealed by a curtain, she saw the more pragmatic furnishings of a living area.

"What creature was the focus of the spell?" Alator threw over his shoulder, striding toward his wall of books.

"A bastet," Merlin said.

The older man spun round. "You're sure?" he demanded, looking Merlin over as though he could see physical evidence of the curse on him. Merlin nodded.

Gwaine said, "What's a bastet?"

"It's a winged cat," Alator said, returning more slowly. "An instinctive and bloodthirsty killer, preferring human victims." Freya's knees buckled, dropping her into the seat luckily behind her; she felt suddenly as though she were trapped in a nightmare. "When was the curse laid?" the older sorcerer asked.

"Today," Merlin answered.

"More specifically?"

"Noon?"

Alator scowled. "Why did you not come to me immediately?"

Merlin met the older man's glare without flinching. "Because there is no cure."

Freya said to Alator, desperately, "Is that true?"

Gwaine turned a thunderous expression on Merlin, hands on his hips. "What was your plan, then, just leave the city?"

"I was going to call a friend to meet me," Merlin said evasively.

"A friend that can heal you?" Freya asked him, but he didn't turn around or answer.

Alator studied Merlin's eyes. "No. Someone he trusted to perform the service he could not ask his friends inside the city to undertake."

"Service," Gwaine said. His jaw was set and his hand was on the hilt of his sword. Freya knew he was upset that their young guest had intended to leave them without speaking of his condition.

"To end his life." The corner of Alator's mouth turned upward. "Youth may excuse rash judgments, Emrys, but you ought to have known better."

"So there _is_ something you can do for him," Freya said, sliding to the edge of her chair. Hope warred with despair in her heart and made it hard for her to breathe. She could not forget that she had been the intended victim of Mary's curse.

"Something," Alator agreed, giving her a sympathetic look. "We shall see. I can make no guarantees, much depends on him." He turned back to Merlin. "Make no mistake, it is hell you will fight through with no assurance of victory. Are you willing to try?"

"Life is never easy," Merlin said with fatalistic calm.

Alator grunted. "No, and especially not yours, eh, Emrys?"

"What do we have to do?" Gwaine said.

"Bring that candle, and come with me." Gwaine retrieved a thick white candle set in a small wooden bowl, and Alator led them through the curtained doorway and out a back entrance, turning sharply to a slanted cellar door. He pulled it up to open, and revealed a set of pale stone stairs as narrow and steep as that which led to Freya's roof, but descending almost twice the distance, into the dark earth. He nodded to indicate that they should proceed, and when both Gwaine and Merlin hesitated, Freya took the little wooden bowl from her brother's hand and began to move carefully down the steps, lighting the way for the men behind her. Gwaine followed her, and then Merlin, and Alator waited to close the slanted door behind them.

Her attention was so focused on not falling that she didn't notice anything of the chamber at the bottom of the stairway until she reached level ground, and the earth wall to either side of the steps opened outward. The floor was of sand, and she moved to the side, lifting the candle to provide illumination for the men to descend. Gwaine let out a low whistle and stepped to the other side of the doorway.

Merlin reached the bottom and stopped dead between them. "Oh, _hell_," he said blankly.

Freya was startled into taking a proper look around. It was quite a large area – room? Chamber? Cave? – roughly circular, and maybe thirty feet across.

Alator pushed past Merlin to take the candle from her hand and ignite a torch from a wall sconce. Then he blew the candle out, set it on a bench and continued around the room, lighting more torches at intervals. There were more benches set against the wall between the torches, a small closed cabinet, and a barrel she supposed held water. But in the middle of the room was the fixture that had caught Merlin's attention.

It was an upright stone slab flanked by two shorter stone pillars. The slab was seven feet high by maybe four wide, held off the ground by great iron pins inserted through holes drilled through the columns into the slab. There were manacles on short chains also bolted into the rock – two sets of two, at the base and again about halfway to the top - and a small ledge protruded about a foot from the surface, a couple of inches from the bottom. At the top were more bolts with ropes tied to them, which connected to a pulley system behind the slab and a wide winch-wheel with a double handle.

"It does look a bit like a torture chamber, doesn't it?" Alator barked a laugh. "My expertise is in treating curses and diseases of the mind and heart, and the use of this arrangement is often necessary in the course of effective treatment." He had come full circle around the room, lighting the last torch, and stopped in front of Merlin to block the younger sorcerer's view of the slab. "This ensures our protection, Emrys, from you." He turned away to the slab.

Merlin tore his eyes from it and met hers with a little wildness in his expression. "Do you trust him?" he asked, in a low voice. Gwaine met her glance over their friend's shoulder; he looked uneasy as well.

"Yes," she said. "Finna does, too. Alator treated our father when he fell and hit his head."

Merlin blurted, "But your father –"

"Died, yes, I know." She took his hand; it was ice-cold and unresisting. "But Alator did everything he could, and didn't give up hope."

"You have a little time, yet, Emrys," Alator said. "Please feel free to familiarize yourself with the apparatus, if it makes you feel more comfortable."

For an awkward moment they all looked at Merlin, then Gwaine made a little bow. "And here on the left is your bedchamber, Master Emrys," he said lightly. "Only the best of accommodations for a friend of mine." With a grin that was only slightly forced, Gwaine headed across the sandy floor to examine the slab and the cuffs, even going so far as to step up onto the ledge with his back to the stone.

"Merlin," Freya said, and he looked down at her, the blue of his eyes shadowy in the dim flickering torchlight, his emotion high but unreadable to her – fear or hope or regret or determination. Or maybe all of them at once. "I'm so, so sorry. This is my fault, if I hadn't –"

"Stop," he told her. "Someone once told me, never believe that another man's decision to kill or spare brings any fault to you. It is _not_ your fault that Mary cast that curse, nor that I got between you."

"Yes, but, if you…" She took a deep breath, and tears sprang to her eyes. "I would never forgive myself, Merlin."

His smile was beautiful and sweet, all the more so for what he was facing. "If Alator thinks I've got a fighting chance," he said, "then I suppose I'll have to fight." His face blurred briefly, then cleared as her tears dropped down onto her cheeks. He reached to brush them away, then turned to approach the slab with determined cheerfulness. She trailed behind him.

"It's not bad," Gwaine said to him, putting his hands sideways through the open cuffs, testing the links of the short chains, "but perhaps a change of linen is in order?"

Alator snorted. Merlin touched one, turning it to the light, and Freya noticed a series of runes etched onto the metal.

"What's that, then?" Gwaine asked, stepping down to the sand as Alator came around the slab.

"It contains the magic of the one bound on the slab," Alator explained.

"Contains?" Freya asked.

"It will neither draw nor diminish the magic inside you, Emrys, merely absorb the external expression. Again, for our protection. You will not be able to escape the restraints, nor cast an effective spell."

"Oh, good," Merlin said, his voice relieved. Gwaine raised his eyebrows in obvious puzzlement, and Merlin added with the air of an instructor, "There is a reason spells which affect people – sleeping spells, love spells, those sorts of enchantments – are different from the magic used on animals. But when a person who has magic begins to lose their humanity – from a curse or a disease or even a blow to the head – control of the magic can be lost as well, resulting in – well, you can imagine the chaos." He quirked one eyebrow at them in sardonic self-deprecation. "A bloodthirsty winged cat with the power of magic as well?" Gwaine shuddered theatrically.

Freya reached to touch the cuff. It was worn smooth, no rough or sharp edges to hurt the one who was chained. "I don't understand how this will help him," she said slowly.

"Emrys was quite right to say that this curse has no cure," Alator said to her kindly. "However, curses can be broken."

Merlin said, in relieved chagrin, "If the patient can be treated within hours, if the transformation can be prevented, and if the patient does not kill while in the beast's form. I _had_ forgotten."

"You've dealt with this before?" Gwaine asked.

Merlin grimaced, but when Alator said, "Eilura," he turned on the older sorcerer in shock.

"You knew her?"

"Her parents brought her to me," Alator said. "The minutes pass, Emrys. Perhaps you would like to remove your coat and shirt – it will get very warm." Merlin began to obey, Gwaine reaching to help him as Alator continued. "I worked with her for several weeks, but it was after the transformation had occurred several times, after she'd killed."

Merlin handed Gwaine his belt and reached to pull his shirt off by the back of the collar. "Why was she sent to me, if you could not help her?"

"Emrys," Alator said, mildly reproachful. "Your magic is legend already. Flexible, agile, intuitive, instinctive, innovative. It was reasonable to hope that a solution might be created, though none had existed before."

"That'll give him an edge here, will it?" Gwaine asked.

Alator gestured for Merlin to step up onto the ledge, and Freya could not help noticing smooth paleness of his skin, the lean but satisfactory musculature of his shoulders and chest, the beauty of the dark swirls on the inside of his arms, the curiosity of the black cord and pendant that decorated his neck and breastbone. She dropped her eyes before she identified the small silver charm.

"It is not a thoroughly-researched nor well-documented curse," Alator stated. "The theory is, that such a thing would affect each person differently, according to existing personality traits."

He reached to seal the cuffs around Merlin's wrists with a gleam of golden magic rather than the click of a locking mechanism. Gwaine knelt to position the second set, slightly larger, around Merlin's ankles above the tops of his boots. Alator glanced down to seal them, and Merlin turned and stretched his arms experimentally, the few links of chain knocking against the stone of the slab. Then the older sorcerer straightened, and his hard gray eyes fell upon the charm that hung on Merlin's chest.

"Ah, so that one is true, too," Alator said, inexplicably. "The friend you mentioned earlier?" Merlin held his gaze but gave no hint of a reply. The older man stared at the charm a moment before grunting to himself, then reaching to lift the cord over Merlin's head. "Do not call them here," the older man said, softly but firmly, and Merlin nodded once.

Freya took the cord and charm from Alator, and the discarded clothing and belt from Gwaine, stepping back. Gwaine went to operate the wheel, drawing the rope fastened to the ring bolted into the top of the slab so that it tipped ponderously backwards. "Let me know when it's comfortable, mate," he said.

"Here." Merlin's voice was husky, his head now just below Freya's shoulder-height and the foot of the slab several feet in the air. He closed his eyes and a shudder ran through him; he moved his arms as if he couldn't help testing the restraints. "If I change, will this hold me?" he asked.

"Yes," Alator answered. He retrieved a tall jar with a narrow neck and a wide rim from one of the benches, and proceeded to pour whatever liquid was inside it in a generous circle around the slab. Freya smelled juniper.

"Gwaine, maybe you should take Freya out of here," Merlin suggested. It seemed to her that his breathing was slightly quicker, rougher, though still he seemed calm.

"No," Alator said, closing his circle. "If she feels herself strong enough, she should stay. Anything that provides you incentive to remain as you are. To fight the change."

Gwaine moved to Freya's side, gave her a serious, questioning glance. She found she was unable to speak, but nodded determinedly. He put his hand on her shoulder, and gestured for her to sit with him on one of the benches, to the side, where they would be a support, but not an audience.

"Alator," Merlin said warningly; there was a catch in his voice that was not quite a gasp. "Midnight."

Alator spoke, and a line of flames leaped up from the circle of liquid spilled on the sand; the bald sorcerer was inside it, with Merlin. "My voice will provide a focus for your attention in opposition to the curse, but you must choose and choose and choose again what you listen to."

Merlin nodded, his head rubbing on the block. He still had not opened his eyes; Freya could see the tension in his muscles, his jaw clenched.

Gwaine whispered in her ear, "How long is this supposed to –"

Merlin grunted as though he'd been punched in the gut, straining to tip his head upward. Alator began to speak, a spell or an enchantment or a charm, in a monotonous drone that lifted goosebumps on Freya's arms under the sleeves of her dress.

On the slab, Merlin's head turned side to side, as though seeking something with increasing desperation, his arms twisted against the pull of the cuffs.

Gwaine wordlessly reached for Freya's hand.

Perhaps the underground room was not meant to be a torture chamber, but it certainly felt like it to Freya before too long. Whatever it was that Merlin was battling inside his mind seemed to crest and ebb like a relentless series of waves. When it was bad, it was very bad, and when it wasn't, it wasn't much better.

Sometimes he'd arch his back right off the slab and a grunt would become a rising growl culminating in a scream ripped from the seams of his soul. Tendons stood out on his neck and forearms, his hands and fingers like rigid curved claws.

And Freya would cram her fingers in her ears – and sometimes even turn her eyes away – and shake her head violently at Gwaine's muffled offers, commands, pleas for her to leave this frightful cave, to return to the surface of the earth.

Sometimes Merlin would pant and yank at the chains and his eyes would dart to each of them like a captured wild thing, writhing as if in the greatest agony. Sometimes he'd collapse gasping, his skin glistening with sweat, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his eyes, only the next moment to tighten every muscle and shake with silent strain.

Mostly Alator kept up his mumbling litany of magic, though he reacted to Merlin's state, letting the whispers fade when the pull of the curse ebbed, or raising his voice commandingly when the cries of pain and resistance wrung from the young man threatened to drown him out. He had another jar - of water Freya assumed, since he took an occasional swallow himself – that he lifted to the younger man's lips without once pausing in his droning chant.

At one point Merlin drew in a great breath, his chest expanding, and threw back his head to let out a rising roar that filled the underground room and made Freya press back against Gwaine in sudden nameless fear.

Alator fairly leaped to smother the sound with his hand and barked out, "Do not call either of them! If you do we will never get you back!"

Merlin stared up at him, then twisted again to either side, and it was not clear if it was Alator's hand that he sought to evade. Tears ran down his temples into sweat-soaked hair.

Freya had not thought it possible, but she reached a point where she had no tears left, no strength to cling to her brother. Her body ached from cringing and her eyes burned from weeping and she merely slid to the sand and curled up, with Gwaine's body bent around hers, to provide protection and comfort for both of them from the horror of their new friend's seemingly endless ordeal.

Hours passed, though it felt more like days.

She shivered against Gwaine's shoulder, her own clothing damp with perspiration, shaking from strain and reaction, not from any drop in the temperature. Merlin's screams had hoarsened and weakened to an occasional muffled moan; she realized he had not opened his eyes for quite some time. The chains clinked faintly, and Alator's gravelly intonation faltered.

Gwaine tensed, and Freya lifted her head.

The bald sorcerer moved to the far side of the slab, alert suspicion tightening his haggard face. Merlin's eyes had opened, watching him, and his body heaved with quick panting breaths, though he raised off the stone to follow the older man's movement, leaning to the far side of the block. And when Alator drew even with his head, Merlin made a sound that struck terror into Freya's heart as none other had, that night.

He _hissed_.

Twisting his body toward Alator, heedless of the tug of the cuff on his arm, he bared his teeth in a feral snarl.

"Freya!" Alator commanded. "To me, at once!" She scrambled up, slapping away Gwaine's restraining hands, fairly leaped the ring of flames still rising from the sand, and took a position opposite the bald man. Alator glared down into Merlin's face and growled out more of his indecipherable chant.

Merlin shrank back, whimpering in the back of his throat, turning away to Freya's side. The blue of his eyes was so dark it was almost black, and blended eerily with the iris. They rolled back before his lids closed over them.

"What do I do?" she whispered hoarsely. This close she could see that the stone of the block was darkened beneath Merlin's body, by sweat, she thought. He writhed, but not with any great energy.

"He is retreating past the ability of speech to recall him," Alator said, quickly and bluntly. "If you would keep him human – kiss him."

"What?" Gwaine said incredulously from behind her.

"All dumb animals mate," Alator snapped. "But a kiss is uniquely human and reaches farther into the heart of a man than words. So, my lady…"

She looked down at Merlin; he'd quieted, but cracked, parched lips parted on a low moan of agony. His skin was white even in the golden torchlight, as though sweat had washed him clear of all color. Perspiration slicked his skin, and gathered his hair in wet spikes…

And it was all for her.

Freya stood on her tiptoes and leaned over him, coaxing him to turn his face to her with one hand gentle on his cheek. She laid her lips on his and kissed him, and though he did not respond, she could feel an easing of tautness in his muscles, and his involuntary movement stilled. He tasted like salt, and smoke, and juniper.

She kissed his bottom lip and his top lip separately, and combed her fingers through the damp snarls of his black hair, pushing it away from his face and his ear, noticing that there was a tiny dent in the outer curl of it.

"Merlin," she whispered, laying her cheek alongside his, to whisper into his ear. "Please come back to us. Please stay. You are so close, my love, it is nearly over." She pulled back slightly to see that his eyes were open, and clear.

"Freya," he rasped, his voice broken by earlier screams and throaty cries. The chains rattled as though he'd tried to raise his hands. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she answered the look by kissing him again, a kiss he participated in almost desperately.

His head shifted slightly and she retreated again. Two tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes as he squeezed them shut once more, and he gasped once.

"Dawn," Alator said, his voice a mix of relief and exhaustion and pride. He put his hand flat on the young man's chest, over Merlin's heart. "Well done, boy," he breathed. "Bravely fought."

The flaming circle died away into a greasy smear on the sand, and Gwaine moved to the winch-wheel. The older sorcerer stopped him with a brief shake of the head, wordlessly indicating that they should switch positions. Gwaine came around to the front of the block as Alator released the gear, and then Freya saw the reason for it.

As the slab tipped back toward upright, Merlin's body slumped bonelessly down, putting all his weight on his bound arms. Gwaine stepped closer to hold him in place, Merlin's head sagging down onto his shoulder, Freya backing another step to give them space. Alator released the spell sealing the manacles, and Gwaine eased the young man forward, positioning himself to fully support Merlin's weight.

"Oh, hells!" Freya choked, jumping forward as Merlin's back separated from the stone of the block. Bright crimson rivulets ran down his skin, over the ridges of his ribs from an open wound on his shoulder-blade, scraped raw and staining the stone.

A secondary realization had her pulling up short. Down the middle of his back, from nape to waist lay a wide strip of thick hair, hiding the knobs of his spine. She couldn't help running her fingers down the back of his neck as Gwaine shifted his weight; it wasn't quite hair and it wasn't quite fur, but… a second bloody scrape marred his other shoulder blade and stole her attention.

"Gwaine, lay him down – he's bleeding," she commanded. "Alator – water and bandages."

Gwaine pulled Merlin's body forward, away from the block, dragging him gently several feet before lowering him by degrees to the sand. Freya knelt to support his head and keep his face off the sand. Gwaine rasped a startling curse himself, rubbing at the stripe of thick black hair on the younger man's backbone.

"Get his shirt and jacket," Freya ordered. She was more concerned that his body showed the rise and fall of regular breathing and that the wound be tended without delay, than anything else.

Gwaine smoothed the faded red fabric out on the sand, and Freya lifted Merlin as much as she could so her brother could slip the shirt under his head. Alator knelt on Merlin's other side, rotating a small bowl of water in the sand to stabilize it, before handing her one of the cloths floating in it, and squeezing the excess water from the other himself. Freya gently cleaned the skin around the scrape, noting with relief that the blood welled slowly from the glistening raw flesh, rather than trickling from a deeper injury. The second mark on his other shoulder blade was the same. Once cleaned, they would eventually form a scab, if he lay still long enough, but…

"Finna said she'd come this morning," Freya said to the other two. "She'll be able to tend him, then."

"Those scrapes, maybe," Gwaine said, and reached to run his fingers through the wide line of hair on Merlin's back, upwards against the lay of it, to test and show its thickness. "But what the hell does this mean? Isn't the curse broken?"

Alator shuffled back, moving Merlin's right arm away from the side of his body. In the torchlight, the green-black complexity of his druidic tattoos _glittered_.

"Someone needs to go for his prince," Alator stated.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Lancelot looks fine this morning," Enid remarked, nudged Gwen slightly with her shoulder. Gwen merely hummed in distracted agreement.

They were seated on a bench in the shade of the palace wall, at the edge of Lionys' training field. Breakfast over and done, Lancelot had invited their guests to take part in the exercises that morning, which Arthur had accepted on behalf of the four of them.

Gwen and Enid had followed, the maid with her smaller mending basket. No matter that she often served in the capacity of companion only, she didn't feel fully comfortable without something to occupy her time and her hands, and needlework was a part of her job that Gwen knew the older girl enjoyed.

Sir Leon, Arthur's senior knight, was sparring with Elyan. Gwen couldn't help a genuine smile at the pair, seeing at once why Elyan preferred pursuing other solutions to problems of governmental administration that arose, rather than relying on force or threat of violence, and why Leon was Arthur's captain. Clearly superior to her brother in skill, Sir Leon was nonetheless drawing Elyan out while calling words of encouragement and advice, without giving the younger knight any offense. The other two visiting knights, Vidor and Caridoc – she thought Vidor was the one with the shorter, darker hair – stood at a further distance practicing with the target-weapons with a half-dozen of the Lionys men.

Lancelot and Arthur, in the meantime, faced each other.

It wasn't a furiously intense competition, but rather a testing of each other's character. Gwen thought them evenly matched, on the whole, as they met to exchange a series of blows, then stepped back to catch their breath and make a comment or two. Gwen wished the bench was set closer, even if it meant enduring the sun's direct rays, in order to hear what they said.

She had a suspicion that Arthur was distracted by the continued absence of his friend and sorcerer. A place had been laid for Merlin Emrys at breakfast, just in case, though no one had expressed surprise that it remained empty. And even now, it was earlier in the day than when he'd joined the hunting party in the forest yesterday. But Arthur, Gwen thought, was losing patience. Slowly, and almost unnoticed, but still.

"But then again," Enid continued placidly, "Lancelot always looks fine."

"Prince Arthur looks fine," Gwen said. It was true, even next to Lancelot who was clearly the most beautiful man ever made. Beautiful and completely dispassionate, while the memory of Arthur's kiss and his reaction to her still brought a fluttery feeling to her stomach.

"And arrogant and self-centered and vain?" Enid teased, and Gwen bumped her back with her shoulder.

"Where's Percival?" she asked, to distract them both. "I'd like to see Prince Arthur face off against _him_."

Percival was her father's biggest knight; he was also one of the quietest and gentlest. Even in tournaments, though his strength was unmatched and his skill – according to Lancelot – was solid, he rarely placed in the finals, as though he was waiting for a true enemy to unleash his full potential upon.

Enid craned her neck, searching the whole of the field for Percival's unmistakable figure. "I don't know…"

"One minute," Arthur said, his voice loud enough to carry to them, and to stop Leon and Elyan in their match. Lancelot gave the prince a small smile and inclined his head, agreeing to whatever challenge they'd set. Arthur pointed toward his senior knight. "You two keep count."

He faced Lancelot again, spinning his sword in an arc to his right side before settling into a fighting stance, using a double-handed grip on his hilt, as Lancelot was. They didn't use shields, they wore no armor but for hardened leather breastplates. The weapons they used were blunted, leaving bruises perhaps but would not pierce the skin – and neither of them were clumsy enough to cause damage with the points.

Arthur drew his sword level, and Lancelot attacked first with a cross-body slash. Arthur parried, then again, then attacked; Lancelot defended, preventing a hit, but was forced into a retreat.

"There's Percival," Enid said, pointing across the field. Gwen spared a glance; Enid was right. Percival was one of the few fighting men identifiable at that distance but she didn't know who his companion was.

Lancelot went on the offensive, then, slashing at Arthur's head, then chest – brave of him, Gwen thought, Arthur was a prince and if the blows had connected he might have been seriously injured, and Lancelot in trouble. But Arthur's blade met Lancelot's both high and low, and when Lancelot slashed again at the golden-haired head, Arthur ducked and danced past him… then waited for Lancelot to regain his balance.

For a moment Gwen turned her attention back to Percival and his companion. He was dressed in the plain drab shades of a commoner, though she was familiar enough with the gait and bearing of a fighting man to know a swordsman when she saw him. She wondered who he was; the two were definitely heading toward them. The stranger's hair was almost rakishly long, and as dark brown as his eyes and the unshaven scruff on his chin – not a guard, then, either, though she'd recognize all of them. But he was grim and weary – a messenger of sorts, since Percival had escorted him onto palace grounds. And the news he brought wasn't good news.

She stood and stepped forward, leaving Enid seated alone with her mending.

Percival and his companion joined Elyan and Leon at the sidelines of Arthur's match with Lancelot – Percival acknowledging Elyan's superior rank as the son of his lord briefly, before turning his eyes back to the fighting pair. He leaned closer to the commoner, pointing – Gwen thought at Arthur – and speaking. The dark-haired stranger simply nodded.

Lancelot attacked again, Arthur parried and knocked the other's sword away. He aimed a blow at Lancelot's legs, which he jumped as Arthur allowed his momentum to spin him around. Lancelot hammered another series of blows, and for a moment Arthur's blade plunged into the ground and stuck. Gwen's breath caught in her throat at the seeming inevitability of the prince's conceded defeat, but Arthur came up with an unexpected backhanded blow to Lancelot's jaw, either hard or surprising enough to knock the other knight to his back.

"Is he _allowed_ to do that?" Enid demanded in a whisper.

"He's the prince…" Gwen murmured back, biting back an inappropriate smile.

Panting, Arthur stepped to Lancelot's side and began to extend his hand to help his opponent up. Lancelot moved swiftly, sweeping Arthur's feet out from under him and flipping over to pin the prince. Only momentarily, before he backed off and they both got to their feet grinning like boys.

"Time," Leon said laconically.

Lancelot glanced at the two new arrivals expectantly, his carefree expression slipping. "Prince Arthur," Percival said, approaching as the prince caught his breath. "This is Gwaine of Lionys, a friend of mine."

Arthur focused on the pair, sobering also, and Gwen was struck that the prince met both with patience and respect. For one instant, she saw the six men before her as a unit, in spite of the diversity of their background and current loyalties, even including the newcomer. She felt an inexplicable upwelling of emotion in her heart, almost of anticipation.

Then Percival added, "He has news of Merlin."

…**..*…..**

LCT: Technically, I didn't turn Merlin into a bastet. *wink* I am pleased to have taken readers by surprise, though – doesn't happen often, you are all so astute – with the fact of the curse, but I didn't even have to write 'bastet' and lots of people guessed!... although, I hope the (eventual) conclusion of that situation is unexpected (yet satisfactory)… Glad you liked Gwen&Arthur's first kiss, I rather enjoyed the tragedy of putting that opposite Merlin's situation, drawing away from the girl b/c he expects his life is over…


	8. Heritage and Choices

**Chapter 8: Heritage and Choices**

"_He has news of Merlin."_

"It was Gwaine who came to us yesterday morning with the report of the slavers," Percival added, mostly to Lancelot, who nodded.

"Slavers?" Gwen interrupted sharply. The men all looked at her, not in surprise or offense, as if they felt that she as a woman did not belong, but simply acknowledging her addition to the group. "In Lionys?" One quick glance on her part told her that Elyan had known of this bit of news.

"Not anymore." The dark-haired commoner, Gwaine, gave her a tired but not disrespectful grin.

"Several were killed, a few more imprisoned," Lancelot clarified for her.

"Merlin," Arthur reminded Gwaine.

"It was because of Merlin that we knew of the slave-traders," Gwaine said. "My sister witnessed Thomas Collins' attack on your party two days ago, and provided some direction to Merlin in his chase. Only she was seen, and Thomas eluded Merlin long enough to abduct my sister and sell her to Halig. Merlin freed her, and in return she directed him to the Collins' house, which was empty, and Merlin stayed at our place in case Thomas went back to either home that night. With me so far?"

Several heads nodded; Arthur twirled his finger in an impatient signal for Gwaine to continue.

"Yesterday morning Merlin fought and killed Thomas. Around noon his mother Mary attacked my sister outside our home."

Gwen thought, _oh, no, poor girl, I hope she's all right_, and _I thought there might be a girl involved_, at the same time.

"Merlin arrived in time to save Freya from any harm – and evidently incinerated Mary with a fireball or some such spell – but in the process, he was hit by a curse. Which we didn't know until he finally said something, late last night."

Dead silence, but for the distant sounds from the rest of training field – mens' voices and the ring of metal.

"A curse," Arthur said evenly.

Gwaine faced him resolutely. "He seemed to be fairly familiar with it – he'd treated someone before? – a curse to transform into a bastet."

Lancelot said, "A what?" To Gwen, it didn't sound good. But then, having experienced one of Mary's curses herself, she wasn't too terribly surprised. Arthur dropped his head and put his hand out blindly, it landed on Leon's sleeve. Leon looked alarmed; Arthur was impassively pale. Gwen wanted to slip her hand into his, but didn't quite dare.

"We took him to a sorcerer who specializes in diseases of the mind," Gwaine continued. "He was able to fight the transformation –"

Arthur's head came up, a blaze of hope lighting his blue eyes. "He didn't change?" the prince demanded. "The curse was broken?"

"No, but – no. It's complicated," Gwaine hedged, aware of his audience. "Alator could explain much better, but he thought – you should come."

Arthur nodded, swiftly unbuckling his leather breastplate and letting it drop. He took two steps before Leon said, "Sire, you should not go alone. Let me call Vidor and-"

At nearly the same time, Lancelot spoke, "I will go as well. Percival? Elyan?" Gwen stepped to Arthur's side, determined to help him or his sorcerer in any way possible.

Gwaine took two steps backward, spreading his hands as if to hold them all together in the group. "Ah," he said, "I think – for Merlin's sake – the fewer the better."

"I will go," Arthur said, over his shoulder to the rest of them. "Alone, for now."

"Arthur, for the past two days an assassin has been seeking your life," Leon reminded him reasonably.

"An assassin who is now dead," Arthur pointed out. "Leon, no one is even going to recognize me looking like this, in company with Gwaine."

Leon said in a low voice, "Can you trust this man? He's sworn no loyalty, to you or to Lord Lionel."

"I'll swear it to Merlin," Gwaine offered unexpectedly. "Hells, I'll even let you carry my sword."

It _sounded_ like a jest, which might have been entirely inappropriate for a commoner in this circle, except for the fact that even Gwen could tell he was essentially serious… and how significant an offer it was for a swordsman to make.

Arthur held the dark-haired stranger's gaze a long moment before turning to Percival. "This man is your friend, you trust him with your life?" Percival nodded; Arthur shifted to bring Lancelot into his view. "And you trust your life to Sir Percival's judgment?"

Lancelot made a small bow of assent. Arthur turned his head a degree farther to meet Gwen's eyes; she held his gaze and nodded also. "I will speak to my father," she said. "If Merlin needs anything – if he should be brought back here…"

"I know where Alator lives," Percival volunteered, "in case your men need to reach you with any communication."

"Thank you," Arthur said to all of them, and turned back to Gwaine, beginning to stride forward and taking the commoner by the shoulder to bring him along. "Keep your sword; let's go."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya sat on the sand floor of the cave-like chamber hewn into the bedrock below Alator's house, playing absently with Merlin's hair as he slept with his head in her lap.

Finna had arrived prepared, it seemed to Freya, for just about anything. It had taken a few moments only to dress and bind the scrapes on Merlin's shoulders and get the exhausted young man back into his shirt. It had taken them longer to rouse him to eat and drink sufficiently of the meal Alator had carried down to them on a tray. Finna had then occupied herself with grinding and dissolving dried basil into a small pot of water and peppermint oil for Merlin to drink during the course of the day.

Freya was so tired she wished she could curl up on the sand and nap, also. And she might just, later on. But for now, they expected Prince Arthur, and she wanted to be awake, when he came.

No one had suggested moving Melin, perhaps because he had not been alert long enough to climb the cellar steps himself, and it would be a dangerous undertaking to carry a man up the steep staircase, either to Alator's house, or hers, or even the palace. But it had not been discussed. No one had mentioned the new visible signs of the curse, either, the stripe of dark hair down his back, or the alterations to his tattoos, the physical representation of his education in and mastery of magic. She was rather glad Gwaine nor Finna nor Alator speculated aloud – she knew enough to recognize that they were not signs of hope.

The slanted door at the top of the stairs had been left open to allow as much daylight as possible into the underground room, and Freya was alerted to another arrival as the diffuse light was blocked, and boots scuffed on the stone stairs. First down was Gwaine, who looked as tired as she felt, but heartened by the accomplishment of a useful task, to fetch the foreign prince.

The second figure through the door was a young man about Gwaine's own age, golden hair, with hard blue eyes and his jaw set, an air about him of assured command, in spite of the plain clothing he wore. Prince Arthur, she didn't even have to ask, though he'd been too far away, that day she'd seen him on horseback, for her to _see_ him then.

Royal. That spoke of more than breeding and heritage, it spoke of great responsibility accepted and understood, even a bit of how it might be discharged – justice tempered with mercy.

Compassionate. He had come immediately, without so much as washing up or changing out of clothes more suited to a working commoner than a prince – and the look he wore as his eyes flickered over her and Finna to fasten immediately on the sleeping sorcerer –

Loyal. Incredible, the bond she could fairly see between the two of them, linked as she'd never seen anyone linked before. Each with a great capacity for loyalty, each so dedicated to the other.

She saw him in the blink of an eye, a heartbeat, an indrawn breath, and eased Merlin's head down onto his rumpled jacket so she could stand and make her way to the prince's side. "He's sleeping," she said softly, to answer the question that reared darkly in his eyes, and to advise against his impulse to go to Merlin immediately.

"This is my sister, Freya," Gwaine said to him. "Freya, this is –"

"Prince Arthur," she said, dropping an appropriately respectful curtsy, momentarily marveling that someone like her should be greeting someone like him, in a place and for a reason such as this. "I'm glad you've come."

He pulled his eyes away from the motionless figure of his friend on the sand and looked at her. "Ah," he said. "So you're the one he –"

"He shouldn't have," Freya said, surprising herself with how calmly she interrupted a member of the royalty. But she felt she owed him something, apology or explanation. "His life is far more important than mine, I know that. He shouldn't have taken that curse. It happened so fast – but he shouldn't have risked himself for me."

Gwaine glowered at her over Prince Arthur's shoulder, but his look was mild, and curious. "He would argue that with you," Arthur told her.

"Yes, I suppose so." She looked back at Merlin also, sandwiched between two blankets Alator had brought down. Finna moved forward then, to bob a wide-eyed curtsy to the prince. "This is Finna, she's a healer," Freya added.

"Finna - what can you tell me of Merlin's health and condition?" Arthur asked her. "The curse?"

"Oh, my lord," Finna said contritely, "I'm only treating him physically. You should speak to Alator – he's up looking through his books," she added, switching her childlike gaze to Gwaine.

"I'll go get him," Gwaine offered in a hurried mumble, already turning to leap back up the long steep staircase as quickly as possible.

Prince Arthur stepped between Freya and Finna to examine the slab and its apparatus, perhaps partially as an excuse to move closer to Merlin. They'd already scrubbed the blood from the open scrapes on Merlin's shoulder-blades from the stone, but it still looked suggestively horrific enough. Finna turned back to her medicines at one side of the room, but Freya trailed after Arthur.

"The hell did they do to you, Merlin," the prince said softly, tiredly, laying one hand on the slab as he looked down at his friend.

"The cuffs contained his magic," Freya explained, speaking softly as well. "So he didn't accidentally do anything any one of us would regret. And it held him still, while Alator performed the –" what? chant? ceremony? – "magic, to keep him from changing."

The prince turned and met her eyes. "You were here?" he said. "You saw this?" She nodded, and had to wipe away the tears that welled in the corners of her eyes. "I have seen it, this transformation," Arthur added, and she remembered the young woman Merlin and Alator had discussed the previous evening. "I can't imagine what it must have been like, trying to resist that."

"Please don't try to," she said, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

"How long did it take him?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Until dawn."

His hand gripped the top of the near stone column as he bent his gaze on Merlin, sprawled slumbering on the ground. "Fighting, all that time," he said, and it wasn't really a question, so she didn't answer.

Merlin stirred briefly, rolling toward his side to bring one hand up, palm down flat between his shoulder and his face, which scrunched in discomfort, or the effort to wake. He slurred something which might have been his prince's name; Arthur knelt next to him immediately, putting his hand on Merlin's shoulder. Freya winced and went down on her knees at his side, reaching to shift his hand slightly, away from the deep scrape Arthur did not yet know about. Arthur allowed it, his attention more on his friend's face than his back, as Merlin blinked sleepily.

"Good morning," Arthur said, sounding like he was trying to suppress all tender emotion in favor of mild sarcasm, and not quite succeeding. "Rise and shine, lazybones."

Merlin turned a little more so he could focus on his prince's face, and a tired version of his most beautiful smile spread widely. "Arthur," he said, hoarse joy and confusion.

"Rough night?" Arthur said, sympathetic and yet mocking at the same time. "I suppose you'll want the day off?" Freya was not sure she approved of the prince's bedside manner, especially considering what his friend had just been through, what he was still facing.

Merlin chuckled, though the sound turned into something of a pained whine halfway through. "Yeah," he rasped. "A whole week, even."

He drew his other hand up to provide himself the leverage necessary to raise his upper body off the ground. Freya moved the blanket covering him as he rocked back, getting his knees under him to rest in a kneeling position. Arthur moved around him to sit on the nearest bench, and motioned for the younger man to join him. Merlin caught Freya's eye as he straightened and she stood to shake out the blanket in preparation to folding it; he gave her a little smile.

"How do you feel?" Arthur asked.

"Sore as hell." Merlin lowered himself to the bench with the stiffness of an old man.

"Did you eat yet this morning?" Arthur said. "Do you need a drink, or something?"

Merlin glanced up at her uncertainly, and she nodded, so he said, "Yeah, I've eaten."

Finna appeared beside them with a small wooden cup which she handed to Merlin. He gave her a glance of thanks, sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose, then drank it anyway. Freya thought it was likely he recognized the concoction, didn't like it, but knew it was necessary and acquiesced. He bent over to rest his forearms on his knees at the same time as Arthur leaned back against the rough-hewn stone wall of the chamber.

"There's blood on your shirt," the prince observed, his eyes on the back of Merlin's shoulder.

Finna looked up, and Freya leaned to check, setting down the folded blanket on the bench beside Merlin and holding up thumb and forefinger to approximate the size of the stain for the healer. "We should wait for Alator," Finna decided. "Then I'll have a look and rebandage it."

"You've managed to injure your throwing arm?" Arthur commented, with faint sarcasm. "How'd that happen?"

Freya exchanged a hesitant glance with Finna; all they had were theories and suppositions, but they were Alator's theories and suppositions – he should be the one to explain and answer the prince's questions. But neither young man noticed, as Merlin twisted on the seat to give Arthur a confused look over his shoulder.

"My throwing arm?" he said.

"The fireball," Arthur answered, as if that should be explanation enough. But at the incomprehension on the younger man's face, he said, with the expression of someone who found himself using more distasteful detail when he'd prefer to gloss over with a vague joke, "Gwaine said it looked like you… killed Mary, throwing a fireball at her."

Merlin again looked at Freya for verification. She shrugged apologetically. "I didn't actually see," she said. "When it happened, or later."

"I didn't use that spell," Merlin said slowly, his brows drawing together as he tried to remember. "I used…" He shook his head, still without precise recollection.

"Fire is your element," Arthur said. "Maybe you just reacted, without thinking?"

"I was defending, not attacking," Merlin answered, a faraway unease in his blue eyes as he straightened, not focusing on any of them, in his mind back in the alley behind Freya's house. "No – Arthur, I didn't use a fire spell."

"I hope you didn't wake him deliberately," a voice sounded from the doorway at the base of the stairs, and Freya turned to see Alator. "He needs all the rest he can get." Gwaine followed the older sorcerer, covering a yawn, and sat down on the bottom step, stretching out his legs and leaning back on his elbows on a higher stair.

"Alator," Merlin said. "This is –" As he stood, he wavered, and Arthur pressed him back down on the bench.

"Sit down before you fall down, idiot," he ordered, a note of fondness coloring his brusque manner, "and hurt yourself even more."

"Arthur of Camelot, yes," Alator said, meeting the younger man halfway across the sandy floor. "The prince becoming the once and future king."

Freya watched Arthur gain a measure of dignity in the blink of an eye. "So it has been said," he spoke evenly. "You are a druid?"

She met Merlin's startled glance with one of her own – no, she hadn't known. But considering the tattoos on his neck, perhaps there was an obscure clan she hadn't heard of?

"I am Alator," the bald sorcerer said. "I was once a priest of the Catha, but I left that tribe many years ago, to employ my talents in the field of healing. About seven years ago. When I learned of the fulfillment of prophecy, and heard the first rumors of the young warlock named Emrys by his prince."

Both men turned to look at Merlin, who sighed tiredly and muttered something about disappointment.

Arthur gave him an exasperated look and said to Alator, "About this curse."

"It's not broken," Merlin said softly, his eyes on the wooden cup still in his hands. Freya was close enough to see that they trembled slightly; she scooped up the folded blanket from the bench and seated herself next to him, not touching him, but encouraging by her presence.

"But it's still possible?" Arthur pressed.

Alator clasped his hands together in front of him. "Theoretically, yes. He has successfully resisted the first change. At this point, I would say also that the strength of his magic is in his favor, and much depends on the purity of his character."

Arthur's hands were on his hips. "Then what's the problem?" he demanded. "Everyone says how the strength of his magic is unprecedented and unparalleled, and I know of no one whose character I hold in higher esteem _shut up, Merlin_."

"Arthur," Merlin said, quietly but firmly, "even though I have not killed as a bastet, I _have_ killed."

"And so have I," Arthur returned forcefully.

"And so have I," Gwaine offered quietly. "It need not affect your conscience, nor form a stain on your character."

"I agree," Alator said. "However, in the case of young Emrys, there is one factor whose affect on the curse is impossible to anticipate."

"And what is that?" Arthur said blankly.

"He is a dragonlord."

For a moment no one spoke. Freya had been young when the stories filtered south to Lionys of the battle of Dinas Emrys; none of them matched, and all seemed several tale-bearers removed from an eyewitness. Rumors persisted over the years of dragon sightings, but again, they did not agree on the location, or even the color… the last dragonlord was supposed to have died about a decade after the last dragon in the last war almost fifty years ago. But if a dragon existed… she supposed it made sense that the blood of their lords remained also.

He _really_ shouldn't have saved her from the curse by taking it on himself.

Alator added, "The bastet curse draws upon the baser elements of a person's character, magnifying and distorting in increasing measure until the human is gone and the creature remains. But he is kin to the dragon – his link to them is blood-inherited and cannot be separated from him."

Arthur turned to Merlin. "That means we can't call on them to heal you, can we?" Merlin simply smiled gently, and shook his head.

The older sorcerer turned to the side of the room and carried one of the benches back to the center, where the greatest amount of light reached. He crooked his finger at Merlin, who rose obediently and crossed to them, straddling the bench. Freya retrieved his jacket from the blanket that had been laid over the sand for him to rest on, and followed. Finna brought the bowl of clean water, a cloth laid over her shoulder, fresh bandages and ointment in her other hand. She laid them out on the bench in front of Merlin, who reached stiffly to the back of his collar.

"Maybe we should give him a bit of privacy?" Gwaine suggested. His eyes were on her, Freya saw, and she began to skirt the bench and the prince on her way to her brother and the stair.

"Don't bother," Merlin said, his voice muffled as he dragged the material of his shirt over his head, but the amusement in his tone still audible. "I haven't got secrets from anyone here, anymore."

"Hells, Merlin!" Arthur blurted involuntarily, as the wide strip of thick black hair down Merlin's backbone was revealed, above and below the white bandaging around his upper chest, covering both scrapes. He reached to touch it without even considering permission, without self-consciousness in the gesture – the closeness between the two was very clear in that one instant.

"That's nothing," Merlin said lightly, pulling his arms from the sleeves. He held one out to Arthur, who took him by the wrist as the exposed druidic swirls and symbols again glittered in the torchlight.

"Is that –" Arthur exclaimed, then glanced at Alator, and Finna, who'd begun to unwrap the blood-spotted bandages placidly, as if he might be mocked for his next word. "_Scales_?"

Alator inclined his head in affirmation, and Arthur ran his fingers over the hardened markings on the pale inside of Merlin's forearm, even scratching at one experimentally.

"Ow," Merlin said, not as if Arthur's action hurt him, but purely to antagonize him.

Arthur repressed a smile, cuffing the younger man's head so lightly it was almost a ruffle of his hair. "Have you got a tail, maybe?"

Finna froze, her eyes impossibly wide, and Freya choked back a sound of offense on Merlin's behalf. Merlin himself didn't miss a beat, straightening and leaning forward. "Don't know; do you mind checking for me?"

Gwaine snorted; Arthur's grin held much of relief. Finna hesitantly finished removing the bandage, easing the last layer off the scrapes that had seeped through.

"No tail," Alator said. "But if dawn had been another hour later, he might've tried for a pair of wings."

"What?" Arthur said, his grin vanishing. Freya literally bit her tongue to keep silent, and retreated to the nearest bench against the wall.

"Is that what those scrapes were?" Gwaine said incredulously.

Alator nodded. "I believe so. Not merely from the movement of his body on the stone. You can see from this bruising here –" he stepped closer to indicate the area without touching Merlin's back as Finna began to gently clean the skin again – "it is as if his bones tried to grow right out of his back."

Merlin shivered. Finna murmured, as though she thought she was causing him pain or discomfort, "I'm sorry, Master Emrys."

Arthur scowled at the older sorcerer as if he held him personally responsible for the state of his friend. "But the transformation is only supposed to be at night," he said. "Why the hell is this affecting him now?"

"The curse of the bastet has become – for want of a better term – _tangled_, with the characteristics and abilities unique to a dragonlord. Otherwise he might have broken the curse's hold already."

Arthur's jaw was tight. He crossed his arms over his chest. "So what can be done?" he said.

"Nothing today, I'm afraid," Alator said, putting a hand lightly, briefly, on the top of Merlin's shoulder. "Tonight – we shall see. It is a pity that his heritage and blood works against him, in the instance of this curse, but his will is strong. There is yet hope."

"Can we take him back to the palace?" Arthur asked. "I mean no offense, of course, but Guinevere has offered the best care Lord de Gransse can give – a bed, at least, and meals…"

Alator shook his bald head. "The curse was resisted, not broken," he said. "That makes his condition – unstable." Merlin lifted his head at that, and Alator met his gaze. "You feel it, Emrys, don't you? I daresay young Freya there can see it as well." Both Arthur and Merlin looked at her at once. "Your magic is unsettled. No, my lord prince, I think your sorcerer had best keep close, today."

Into the moment of silence that followed, Finna said to Merlin, "Lift your arms, please." She reached around his ribs to begin the process of re-bandaging. "If I may ask, your highness, have either of you made enemies among the initiates on the priestesses' isle?" It was the plump healer's turn to receive looks from both young men, which she ignored calmly to finish her task.

"We have had dealings with the former High Priestess Nimueh," Arthur said, "and the current High Priestess, Morgause, is the sister of my sister."

"The High Priestess is your sister?" Gwaine exclaimed from the foot of the stair. Freya smiled to herself and shook her head, in disbelief once again at the situation and company she found herself in.

Arthur didn't even turn around. "No, I'm no relation to Morgause – it's complicated – why do you ask, Finna?"

She tucked the end of Merlin's bandage neatly under, then lifted her sleeve. Freya rose without thinking and crossed to see a tattoo on Finna's arm, a pattern of interlocking squares. "I was raised a bendrui," she stated, as simply as if she'd declared the day to be cloudy.  
"Oh," Merlin breathed, raising his eyes from the mark to the healer's wide blue eyes, with more than a hint of respect.

"What?" Arthur said.

"The bendrui," Merlin said. "Girls who are born to druid families, but are strong enough in magic to study with the priestesses."

"I finished my education and chose to return to my clan for some time, before I came here," Finna told them. "We never spoke of it; I rarely saw her here in town and I don't think she would have recognized me anyway, she was several years ahead of me, educationally speaking, but… Mary Collins was trained on the isle as well. I only remember her because of the scandal she caused when she abandoned her studies to elope with one of the boatmen who brought supplies. She was strong enough to be a priestess, if she'd stayed, and several of our instructors had mentioned her name as a candidate for high Priestess after Nimueh…"

Gwaine had risen to his feet, and stood a half-step back from Arthur and Alator. "We did wonder," he commented to the prince, his gaze on Merlin as he pulled his shirt back on, "why Thomas would have attacked you. If he was paid to do so, then you have to wonder…"

"Who paid him," Arthur agreed. "And why _him_."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen watched Arthur and Gwaine out of sight; they all did. But she angled her body after a few moments to say conversationally, "Sir Leon, I could not help but notice your reaction to the mention of this curse. What information can you give us?"

Leon looked at each of them, all four of Lionys, and strangers three days past. "Last autumn," he said neutrally, "a family arrived in Camelot seeking aid from our court physician Gaius, and Merlin as his apprentice, for a young girl suffering from this curse."

"What happened?" Gwen said, giving him her full attention as Arthur and Gwaine passed from sight.

"They weren't in Camelot long enough to discover whether Gaius or Merlin might have found a way to aid them," Leon said. "At midnight the girl turned into a bastet, a winged cat."

"Dangerous?" Elyan asked.

"She broke free of her cage," Leon said. "Arthur organized the knights, intending to contain the creature in the courtyard, but in so doing received a slight wound which made him vulnerable. To save Arthur's life, Merlin brought a segment of statuary down upon the creature. It did not survive."

Gwen winced – to save Arthur's life, Merlin was forced to take another. She wondered how many times that had happened; she wondered if Arthur had killed to save Merlin. She thought of the look on the prince's face as he gazed through the solar window, down upon the city, and worried for his absent friend. She thought of the look on his face when he met Merlin again in the forest. The look when Gwaine had said, _a curse to transform into a bastet._

Yes, she thought it likely. He had killed to save Merlin, and would not hesitate to do so again.

There was an uncommon bond there, she saw. A ruler often had to be careful of the men who surrounded him – councilors, defenders. After all, it wasn't an enemy who betrayed a man. But between Arthur and Merlin… they were so close as to be each an extension of the other. Sooner suggest that a man's right hand would turn on him.

"A bastet is a killer, then," Elyan said, glancing at Lancelot and Percival, both older knights, for confirmation and agreement. "Ought we not take steps, for the safety of our people, to restrain Merlin? It was a cage you mentioned, Sir Leon?"

"No," Gwen said.

And Leon spoke nearly at the same time, "Gwaine told us he resisted the change. Merlin would lock himself up and throw away the key if he felt he endangered anyone – Arthur will decide what needs to be done, if anything. What do you know of this Alator?"

"He is a healer, of sorts," Lancelot said. "We took a man to him last year who had received a head wound; he appeared to heal, but his balance and perception was skewed, and his personality changed." Percival nodded in remembrance. "Two days with Alator, and another two weeks' recuperation, and he's –" Lancelot turned, searching the training field – "he's over there with Sirs Vidor and Caridoc."

"My lady?" Gwen turned to see Enid approaching, her mending basket hung over her elbow. "Lord Lionel has sent word for you to attend him in the library at your convenience."

"Thank you," Gwen said. To Elyan she added, "Yesterday I missed my weekly excursion into the city." Once a week she collected excess from the palace – cast-offs from the tailor, from the kitchen, even occasionally a book or scroll replaced with a better copy from the library – to give out among those in need in the city. "Perhaps we should do that this morning. And if we end up anywhere near Alator…" She raised her eyebrows, and the four men gave her nearly identical grins.

"I'll see to it that the supplies are gathered, my lady," Lancelot said. "If we all go with you –" he glanced at the others, who nodded – "we won't need anyone else."

"Thank you," she said. "I shouldn't be long."

She found her father seated in the library, at a large table with three books open before him. But whatever research or education he was involved in, was not what he wished to discuss.

"Guinevere," he greeted her, standing and coming to her as she gave an appropriate curtsy. She squeezed her shoulders gently and kissed her forehead as she hugged him back. "Am I taking you from our guests?"

"Not at all, Father," she said. "Prince Arthur received word this morning that Merlin Emrys suffered some ill effects from his altercation with the assassin and the witch his mother, and went to speak with the healer who is treating Merlin."

Her father nodded. "Anything we can do to help, of course," he said.

"I told the prince that," Gwen said.

"Guinevere," her father began, a troubled look deepening the wrinkles on the face she had long considered handsome and distinguished. As he reached for her hand and tucked it into his elbow to begin a slow circuit of the quiet, book-filled room, she noticed that there was more white in his close-cut hair – and there was less of that – than she'd noticed recently. A lump rose in her throat, at the thought of age catching up to her father. "It is the prince I wished to speak with you about."

She gave him a wondering look, and said nothing. Lord Lionel sighed.

"I met your mother when she was three years old, did you know that? A lady, a daughter of nobility. We were friends long before we were lovers, and no one had one word to say against our union." He gave her a slow sideways smile. "We were highly fortunate – such marriages can be unusual. While I have hoped that such love as I had with your mother might someday find you and your brother, I have prepared you to choose your mate with your head as much as your heart."

"Yes, Father," Gwen said, as he paused and seemed to wait for her to say something. But she already knew the history of her parents' relationship, and agreed that Lord Lionel had taught his children their duty to Lionys.

"That being said, what is your opinion of Arthur Pendragon?"

Ah. That was what he was getting at. When they'd first received the request from Camelot, the offer for Arthur's preliminary visit, the three of them had discussed the politics of the potential arrangement. Elyan was her father's heir; he would retain the governorship of Lionys in any event short of an enemy conquering by force. But if the Pendragon prince married the older daughter of Lord de Gransse, Lionys would become a province of Camelot. Minor taxation only, free trade, as well as full protection of the king's forces. Strategically a highly desirable match. But Lord Lionel would not pressure her into a situation where she expected unhappiness or discontent.

"It is early yet," she stated.

"Yes, of course. Two days only, and he came for two weeks. But indulge me with an answer, I promise there is a reason for the question." Her father patted her hand.

Gwen opted for simple honesty. Arthur would make a good husband – considerate and honest, she believed, no matter who he chose. She could not in good conscience put daydreams about Lancelot over the reality and advantage of Arthur. "If he made me a proposal of marriage, I would accept," she said. "The only question in my mind is whether, after he has spent two weeks with seven other girls, he will remember me at all."

"There is that," her father mused, and she pulled him to a stop.

"Why, Father?" Why did she get the feeling that he was suddenly and inexplicably reluctant to encourage or even allow the union – even the visit? – to go forward.

"I am… concerned," her father said. "About this assassin."

"But he's dead," she pointed out, "and I'm sure Arthur doesn't hold that against _us_ –"

"I am concerned," her father repeated, "about the _fact_ of an assassin. A prince – a king – has many more enemies than a lord's son or a knight. Whether he is a good man or not," he added, seeing Gwen's expression. "I find myself uneasy over the idea that a marriage to Prince Arthur might place you in danger. You were lucky, yesterday," he said, over her protestations. "We might have lost you. Because someone wanted him dead."

Gwen couldn't help remembering Arthur say, _I seem to attract trouble of this nature, sometimes_. "You would prefer to withdraw our cooperation?" she said. "In which case, it would be most honorable to advise Arthur his presence in Lionys is no longer necessary?"

"No, of course not." Lord Lionel raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I only wish to… caution you, against… growing too fond, or encouraging his attentions too openly."

This time, it was Gwen who began to walk around the room. It was very nearly what she'd already told herself. If Arthur gave each girl equal consideration – he seemed a fair-minded man – then the odds were against him choosing her. Continued courtesy was good; kisses were bad.

Then she remembered something else he'd said about their adventure in the forest – _you're taking this all very well_… many girls would have dissolved into hysterics, gotten themselves or others killed.

"Father," she said, "I have been thinking." About Arthur, of course, very natural. About the sort of man he was, the sort of king he might one day be. "I don't want to be an ornamental wife, or a vessel for heirs." Perhaps it would be enough, if she loved a man wholeheartedly, who returned the feeling in the same capacity, to live such a life, building such a family. "But I think, Arthur will need a wife who is more than that, also. The queen of Camelot should be strong and compassionate and resourceful and understanding…"

Her father was smiling in gentle amusement. "You have a desire to be queen, now?" he said, giving her the tacit compliment.

"No," she answered. "I mean… no. But if I can be what he needs in a wife… then I feel I should. Do you understand? If it does mean accepting more danger, it would feel wrong to me to step back, to hide or discourage or tell him, not me, and pass that responsibility and risk on to someone else."

"Peace, Guinevere." Lord Lionel was smiling, though his eyes were full of unshed tears. He took her face between his hands. "I am proud of you, though it is a curse peculiar to parents, to want to protect their children from the consequences of the courage they've taught them only too well." He sighed. "I suspect… well. We will change nothing, then. We will go on as before, and the choice will be Arthur's, then, to make."

…**..*…..**

LCT: Well, 'better' is relative. Merlin is still himself… mostly. And yes, I snuck in Freya's endearment on purpose… not so much for Merlin to know how she feels, but for her to kind of betray it in a moment of stress… Even if no one else notices or remembers, we all know how she feels, now!


	9. Picnics and Precautions

**Chapter 9: Picnics and Precautions**

The basket over Gwen's arm was the only one that hadn't been emptied, by the time the sun reached its zenith overhead. Lancelot and Leon had reached for it at once, which resulted in a moment of awkwardness, then humor, and Lancelot's appropriation of it. Leon had a small bag slung over one shoulder, anyway, a battered and weather-stained satchel of brown leather.

And Percival had pointed out to them the back-alley path that led to Alator's home. It was free-standing, something of an oddity in Lionys where everything was connected to something, and often without rhyme or reason, and had a back area in the shape of an elongated diamond, between his back wall and the other three buildings that flanked it.

There was a slanted door as if for a cellar, closed, next to the back door of the house. Between the slanted door and a rain barrel at the corner was a bench in the sun. Arthur sat on the bench, his arms folded over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankle, his face closed and his gaze fixed on his boots. Merlin was sprawled next to him, looking as though he'd fallen asleep unawares, and tipped sideways until his head rested on Arthur's shoulder; he looked comfortable and almost serene. On the ground next to the bench were another pair of legs, and as Gwen's party left the alleyway for the diamond-shaped open area, she saw it was Gwaine, chin on his chest, asleep as well.

Arthur lifted his eyes to them, and his expression eased almost to smiling. He lifted his finger to his lips as a signal for their silence, then whispered, as soon as they were near enough to hear it, "Everyone's sleeping. Well, except Freya, but she went with Finna to –"

The prince froze as Merlin shifted, and something fell from the younger man's hand into the dust. Gwen, being nearest, knelt down to retrieve it – a black leather cord with a small silver charm hanging from it, a plain flat piece in the shape of a dragon – head, outstretched wings, and a winding tail. Arthur held out the hand of the arm not supporting the sleeping sorcerer, and she dropped the cord and charm into it. He carefully passed it across his body to drape over one of Merlin's hands, lying unmoving in his lap.

"He looks good," Leon whispered to Arthur, dropping the battered leather bag next to the bench. Arthur evidently recognized it; he nodded in acceptance of whatever contents Leon had carried from the palace. "Is he okay?" Arthur's only response was a darkening of his eyes and a tightening of his jaw in a swift look at his senior knight.

Merlin moved again, stretching his arms a bit, but not straightening his body away from Arthur. His hand closed around the charm, and he opened his eyes and blinked at Gwen, his whole face lighting up in a smile. "Hey, Gwen," he said, his voice sounding hoarse as if from sleeping.

She smiled back, and it held as the others greeted him also, interrupting each other, and his eyes went from one man to the next in childishly surprised delight at his company.

"We brought you lunch," she told Merlin, with her eyes on Arthur. He looked like a man with a lot on his mind, and not much of it good; she guessed there was more to the situation than how normal Merlin looked.

Arthur shrugged him off with a roughness that contrasted his patient gentleness with the sleeping sorcerer, and rotated his shoulder in an exaggerated fashion. "Next time you get to fall asleep on Gwaine, or someone else," he complained. "Your head is _heavy_."

Merlin grinned, unoffended. "That's because there's something inside _my_ head."

"Rocks," Arthur growled.

Percival stepped to the side and kicked the soles of Gwaine's boots. The swordsman jerked awake with a snarl, then blinked up at the newcomers and gave them a grin. "Reinforcements?" he quipped.

"Lunch," Percival answered.

"Excellent!"

"Outside?" Gwen said to Arthur. "I brought a blanket we could spread, there's plenty for everyone if no one minds sharing."

"Should I go wake Alator?" Gwaine said, as Percival gave him a hand up. "He wanted to be around when Merlin was awake… just in case…" There was an uncomfortable pause, and Merlin gave Arthur a glance that was almost shy.

"He's around," Arthur decided, rising from the bench. "I think there's enough of us to handle Merlin should we need to."

They all looked down at Merlin – six fighting men trained, at the one slender sorcerer. He slipped the cord and charm into an inner pocket of his jacket, and held up his empty hands defensively, giving them an impish grin. "I promise not to make it necessary," he said.

"Good enough for me," Gwaine said, and went to open the basket slung over Lancelot's shoulder.

Lancelot swung away from him with a rude comment that only made the commoner grin, and Elyan was at Lancelot's other side to remove the blanket that Gwen had placed at the top of the basket.

"Is Freya back yet?" she heard Merlin say to Arthur, and stopped herself from turning toward the two, to give them a moment's semblance of privacy.

"Not yet; Finna said it could take a little time to gather and prepare what she wanted to give Freya for you."

"Hope she goes home to sleep," Merlin murmured. "Last night couldn't have been easy on her, either."

Between them, the four knights managed to spread the thick velvet cloth on the packed earth with barely a wrinkle. Which left Gwaine to poke through the contents of the basket inquisitively.

"Gwaine," Arthur raised his voice and the dark-haired commoner looked up sheepishly. "Haven't found a saucer of milk yet, have you? Because that'll be Merlin's."

The three Lionys knights gave the prince incredulous looks. Leon hid a smile and Gwaine snickered.

"Raw meat," Merlin said contemplatively, and gave them an impish look.

"Oh, yeah, plenty of that," Gwaine said, pretending to look through the basket. The others looked at him in astonishment; Gwen giggled. "Only – you prefer people, don't you, mate? Take a bite out of Percival, there, if you've a mind to, that way no one will miss it."

Percival cleared his throat and said in a deep, serious voice, "The ladies will."

Smiles were starting to spread. Elyan dared to scoff, "What ladies, Percival?"

Gwen went to push Gwaine out of the way; he gave her a grin perhaps overly familiar for a commoner to a noblewoman, but these were unusual circumstances. She began to unpack the basket, leaning forward on the blanket to set out dainty wicker bowls wrapped in napkins. She said archly, "Here in Lionys we have only one dinner custom – when the food is hot, we eat." And the men crowded around with good-natured pushing and teasing.

Lancelot said to Merlin, "You weren't serious, were you – raw meat?"

"Oh, hells, no," Merlin said, horrified. Then, a second later and in a completely different tone, "Is this apple jam?"

Gwen sat on one hip between Elyan and Arthur, her legs tucked next to her, resting on one hand. Merlin was on Arthur's other side, cross-legged, cheerful in spite of the faint shadows under his eyes, fainter shadows in them.

No one mentioned the curse again, even in jest. The subject had been alluded to, it was discarded. Gwen, who watched more than she participated, in conversation much rowdier than she'd ever heard around her father's table, noticed that every once in a while, one of the others would shoot a glance at the young sorcerer. Just checking. And, less frequently, at Arthur.

Both of them, she thought, needed this. Lighthearted and undemanding camaraderie. She marveled in a slightly melancholy way at how easily the men of Camelot and the men of Lionys interacted.

And Arthur. Tolerant and amused at the banter, not above inserting a comment of his own, taking an occasional mild quip directed at him without offense. Attentive to her at his side, as he stretched more than once for some choice bit that was further than was ladylike for her to reach on the blanket, entirely unself-conscious, unpretentious.

It was an oddly comfortable experience, almost as if she'd finally found where she –

Across the blanket, Leon straightened, rising to one knee with an expression of intense concentration. Immediately the other men reacted, turning to follow Leon's line of sight; more than one hand moved to a sword-hilt in readiness. Only Merlin continued unperturbed, gnawing on a biscuit.

Gwen turned as a girl came into sight with a basket on her arm that reminded her of Enid's small mending basket. She was petite, about Gwen's own height, but slender where Gwen tended to be curvy. Her long dark hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and her expression was sweetness changing to a blushing startlement to see them all. She noticed that the girl's eyes – after a quick glance to take in the impromptu picnic – went right to Merlin.

"Freya!" Gwaine greeted her with a beckoning wave.

She came forward hesitantly, even shyly, and when her eyes fell on Gwen – and Elyan beside her – her blush deepened as her warm brown eyes widened in recognition. "I – brought lunch," she said, shifting her arm to bring the small basket forward a few inches. Gwen winced internally, searching for something to say, since they were all so obviously in the middle of a veritable feast by comparison.

Gwaine called cheerfully, "Did you get any of that spice cake from the vendor on the corner?"

"Spice cake?" Percival said hopefully.

"Did you bring any of that cheese we had the other night?" Merlin nearly overturned Arthur's horn cup of watered wine in his ungainly scramble to his feet.

"Merlin, mind your big feet!" Arthur said with deliberate ungraciousness. Merlin ignored him, arriving at Freya's side with a smile so beautiful and pure and just for _her_, Gwen's heart gave a brief pang of something not entirely unlike envy.

"You sit by me," Merlin said unequivocally. "And you don't have to share anything with this pack of wolves." The others took exception to his remark – as Gwen thought he had intended – and Freya was introduced quickly and informally, the contents of her little basket soon consumed, to her pink-faced pleasure. Except for a small scrap of muslin tied with thread that she dropped into Merlin's cup, answering his grimace with a whispered apology.

That particular group of men, however, would not remain inactive for long – and the ground wasn't soft. They took turns washing in the rain barrel at the corner of the healer's house, then softened a section of ground with the water to play some sort of target-game, flipping their knives down to stick in the mud.

Gwen and Freya were left to pack up the napkins and empty dishes of the meal, but remained reclining on the velvet cover to watch the men idly. Gwen was reminded of their interrupted hunting excursion, how she'd anticipated resting just like this with Enid. They chatted a bit about Freya's occupation – the herb garden sounding to Gwen much like her beloved solar room – and a bit about brothers.

Delicately, Gwen said, "Your brother mentioned you were with the slave-traders for some time. But you're all right, now?"

Freya made a dainty grimace. "It was awful," she admitted, still somewhat timid with Gwen as if she couldn't forget Gwen's rank in spite of her insistence that titles be dispensed with. "I was so afraid… and when I saw Merlin, I couldn't quite believe it." She glanced at the black-haired sorcerer leaning against the wall of the house, part of the group of men, and yet not participating in the game of knives. He was toying with something between his hands that Gwen thought was the dragon charm and cord.

"I think I know what you mean," Gwen murmured, recalling the surprise and relief of looking down into the ravine to see Merlin standing there looking at _her_.

Freya met her eyes shyly. "He told me, a little of what happened to you," she said. "I think – you must have had a worse time of it, than I."

Gwen shrugged the shoulder she was not resting against. "It could have been far worse, if not for Merlin." Freya hummed in agreement, her eyes returning to the subject of their discussion, who that moment turned his head to look at the two of them and give them a wry but cheery smile. "How is he really?" Gwen said quietly.

Freya shifted her position, to face Gwen more than the men, and her expression was troubled. "I think only he knows how much the curse is affecting him. I think it's important to him that no one is worried. I think it's good for him, this distraction…"

They couldn't hear what the men were saying, but Gwaine's teeth flashed in a devilish grin, Percival looked like an overgrown schoolboy. Leon rolled his eyes to Lancelot, and Elyan looked from one to the other as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes and ears. Arthur was standing with his back to the girls, but his head turned as Merlin threw his back in a great peal of laughter.

"I don't know," Freya continued. "Alator says there's hope, but…"

"He seems a very special person," Gwen said softly. "He and Arthur are very close."

"It's more than that," Freya said thoughtfully. "Their bond is closer than some brothers. It's as if – they were made for each other, for some great purpose, each as necessary as the other…" Gwen stared at the younger girl, surprised at her insight. She'd known Merlin two days, and had only met Arthur that morning, but – Gwen could feel the truth of her words. "Like the right and left hand of destiny itself…" Freya mused, then came back to herself with a little startle of self-consciousness, glancing at Gwen, then giving her a longer look. "You can see it, too, can't you? You can feel it."

A bit more, maybe, than the potential of a crown prince anticipating a kingship. Destiny – yes, maybe. "Arthur is under orders to find a wife by autumn," Gwen said. "I surely hope he chooses a girl who will understand his relationship with Merlin." Arthur shifted to look over his shoulder at them – at her – and gave her a lopsided smile.

"As if anyone could fully understand Arthur's relationship with Merlin," Freya said, her sarcasm somehow mild and sweet. "But… I think he will."

Gwen opened her mouth to ask, what about Merlin? since the younger girl's interest in and feelings for the young sorcerer were more than hinted at. But the back door of the healer's house opened and a man emerged, dressed in a hooded long-sleeved tunic that brushed the tops of his boots, darker trousers visible through side-slits up to the thigh. He was bald and his expression was sternly concentrated.

"Oh, that's Alator," Freya said, rearranging the skirt of her dress, a red that was faintly bleached, so that it was almost a very dark pink. "I hope he's rested; he was up all last night, too, and probably will be again tonight." She left the blanket to approach the bald man at his door, falling into immediate and serious conversation.

Gwen remembered the banquet planned at the palace, and winced. While they were wearing their best and eating the finest, music and drinking and dancing and laughing, Merlin and these few friends would be preparing for another long lonely night of curse-fighting. She wondered whether the banquet would be fairly concluded by midnight, and whether Arthur would sleep at all – or slip back to the city to be with his sorcerer.

"That's a very serious look, my lady," Merlin's voice said, and she squinted briefly into the bright sky, watching as he lowered himself beside her, both knees bent – one up to provide a resting place for his chin, and one down.

She sighed. "These are serious times," she told him. "And you? How are you feeling?"

His smile was little more than a blue twinkle and an impudent twitch of the corner of his mouth. "Me? I shall be serious later."

She said quietly, all pretense between them gone, caring friend to friend, "You look tired."

He made a noncommittal noise, looking back at the men at a burst of sudden noise from them. Elyan pounded Arthur's back, while Gwaine made a gesture of protest, and Lancelot bent to retrieve the blades from the ground. "It can be tiring, entertaining Arthur," he said. "If you haven't learned that yet, you will soon."

"Mm." So he resisted, still, the honest admission of his condition – keep others from worrying, as Freya had said. "It's a good thing I've got patience and energy, then."

He tipped his head enough to see her face. "Yes, it is," he murmured, no longer teasing. "Arthur… wants so badly to be in love," he said. "Don't tell him I've said this. But I don't know if he trusts himself to recognize it… he's had a couple of… bad experiences."

"The love-spells?" she said, and he gave her a surprised look.

"He told you about that?"

She nodded, and his look turned speculative. "We should be heading back to the palace, anyway," she told him, feeling a bit vulnerable under that frank blue gaze. "There is my father's feast to prepare for, and I'm sure you could use the rest."

"You're probably right," he said mildly. She got to her feet, and he pushed himself up also. "Gwen, do me a favor?" Angling his body to hide the action from the rest, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a roll of parchment. She took it, uncomprehending. "It's for Arthur. You'll know the right time, I think."

She looked into his eyes, smiling and clear and deep as a lake serenely reflecting the expanse of sky overhead. "But why don't you just –"

He shook his head before she was through. "It wouldn't do; he wouldn't understand properly, if it came from me."

She found herself curiously honored, and unsure if she deserved it; she tried again, "Maybe Leon –"

"Please, Gwen." At that, she slipped the small roll into a pocket of her own, hidden in the folds of her skirt. "I'm glad he has you, Gwen," the young sorcerer said with another, almost secretive smile, as he turned away.

She said, "What do you –" but the game was ending, the other knights and the prince clearly taking leave of Gwaine, turning to speak to Merlin also, light-hearted wishes of the good luck sort, she thought. She remained where she was, watching through the others gathering the velvet spread, shaking folding packing it, Percival this time preparing to carry the emptied baskets, as Arthur and Merlin faced each other.

"My lady." A completely different voice, low and hard and a bit foreign. She turned to find the bald healer at her side. He gave her a small bow.

"Alator, isn't it?" she said. "Do you think you could – I mean, no one seems to want to discuss the severity of the curse, which is of course perfectly fine I understand it's Merlin's privacy they're protecting, but as the daughter of my father…"

"Do not trouble yourself, my lady," Alator rumbled. "It is a difficult process, of course, but not impossible. I think you can see right there, the reason I have for hope."

No one else was near enough to hear what the prince and sorcerer were saying to one another, but Arthur's expression was sober, almost dissatisfied, despite the answering grin Merlin gave him. The younger man dug into the same jacket pocket as he'd done for the scroll, and handed something to Arthur that glinted in the slanting rays of the sun an hour or two from setting.

"Emrys," Alator growled inexplicably, "was not supposed to have done magic, today. It was foolish of him to take the risk."

"The risk?" she said. Arthur appeared to protest initially, but Merlin wouldn't take the object back, and after a moment of explanation or entreaty, the prince nodded.

The healer appeared not to have heard her. "Their bond is stronger than the curse, I believe," he said. "They are young; there is much yet for them to accomplish." It was, Gwen knew, the lament of friends and family of youth struck down, but in this case, she had the feeling that Alator meant more, or knew more.

Arthur put one hand on Merlin's shoulder to give him one final remonstrance, it seemed to her, then turned to join them. "Alator," he said, reaching to take the healer's hand. "I thank you for the trouble you've taken with my sorcerer. I leave him in your hands."

Alator gave him a proper bow. "My lord," he said. "Emrys shall be as safe as I can make him." Arthur nodded, and the bald healer moved back toward his door.

The knights began to move past Gwen and Arthur, beginning their journey back to the palace. Merlin gave a cheerful wave to them both, as Gwaine stepped to his side to speak to him. Gwen fell in step with Arthur, following the knights, and he hefted the object with an odd look on his face – it was the cord and charm that he'd returned to Merlin earlier after he'd dropped it in his sleep.

"What is that?" she asked.

"It's a symbol of his heritage, his dragonlord blood," Arthur told her. "It's – much more than that. I may tell you, sometime."

"Why did he give it to you?" Gwen touched the scroll in her pocket and a cold finger of foreboding traced her spine.

"Alator thinks that's getting in the way of breaking the curse," Arthur said. "I guess dragons weren't meant to mix with winged cats." In spite of the levity of his words, his blue eyes were clouded, a wrinkle of worry between the brows only a shade or so darker than his hair.

"So you're just holding it for him for safekeeping?" She didn't know why, exactly, she persisted. Seeking reassurance, maybe.

Arthur lifted the cord over his head, dropping the charm inside the neck of his thin plain white shirt. "He said he's been working all day, laying enchantments on it, binding spells to it, or some such –" he cut himself off before he could say _nonsense_. "To protect me, since he can't. Tonight."

"Why? What danger does he think you'll be in, in the palace?" Gwen asked blankly.

He turned to glance over his shoulder, still walking, so she did as well, but the curve of the alley had taken them out of sight of the healer's house, and the diamond-shaped open area behind. There was a sardonic half-smile on his face when he turned forward again. "Merlin," he told her, "can sometimes be a little paranoid when it comes to my safety. And completely careless with his own."

They walked to another corner, and when they turned, she slipped her hand into his. He seemed to take little notice, simply closing his fingers around hers, but she was surprised by how well their hands fit, how comfortable it was. How comforting.

He let go first, when they reached the atrium of the palace. The route to her chamber, and his quarters in the guest chamber one floor below hers was up a different staircase than the knights' quarters, which were toward the rear. Because Sir Leon waited for him, Gwen found herself lingering on the bottom stair. And because of the tricky echoes of the vaulted ceiling, she found she could hear most of what the prince said.

"Lancelot." The captain of the Lionys guard turned at the call of his name, and gave Arthur a proper bow of his head. "I wondered if you could tell me, what was done with the bodies of Thomas and Mary Collins?"

"Burned last night," Lancelot said. "Buried this morning, outside the south wall. There's a small criminals' plot, for those who don't deserve marked graves."

"Ah. I see."

"I hope you find that satisfactory?"

Arthur was giving the polished marble floor a faint frown. "No, I'm sure it's fine. I don't suppose – anyone properly identified both corpses?"

There was a curious look on Lancelot's face – subdued, of course, as it wasn't his place to question a prince, visiting royalty. "My lord?"

"Never mind." Arthur's smile was brief, as he turned. "See you at the banquet."

Gwen faced the stair, gathering her skirt in one hand to climb slowly, listening though she did not want to appear so.

"Sire?" Leon said.

"I'd like to order you back into the city, keep an eye on Merlin," Arthur said, his voice low also. "But since we are guests, and I have nothing more to go on than his funny feelings… tell Vidor and Caridoc, ceremonial chainmail. Cloaks and swords."

"At the banquet?" Leon's question was not incredulous, merely clarifying.

Arthur made no response she could hear, but then again, they hadn't moved from the foot of the stair, and she'd almost reached the top. Before she turned the corner and the wall blocked her view of the two, she glanced down again.

"He said," Arthur told his senior knight, half mocking and half reluctant acceptance, "it wasn't a fire spell he used."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Perhaps it was true that Merlin had no secrets from them anymore, but Freya waited on the bench outside the back door, after heating the water to fill the tub Alator was letting Merlin use. Watching Finna dress the scrapes on his shoulder-blades was one thing, she supposed, a bath something else entirely.

Probably for the best, she thought, lifting her face so the late afternoon breeze could cool a sudden rise of heat. Probably she wouldn't be able to help sneaking glances and that would lead to Gwaine losing his temper and probably then she would find herself ordered home and to stay there and Merlin forbidden from seeing her again, if Gwaine didn't simply draw his sword. In which event, she wondered idly, sarcastic with herself, would he end Merlin's curse by killing him, or complicate it by demanding their immediate marriage.

Probably best for Merlin that she waited outside.

"Here," Gwaine said, and her moment of inattention meant the clothes he chucked at her hit her in the face before dropping to her lap. She smelled sweat and juniper and horse and blood and Merlin, and gathered them up silently. "You said you wanted those to wash," Gwaine added. "Since Leon brought him a change of clothes."

"I'm doing your things from your trip, I might as well do a few more," Freya said, standing. To her surprise, Gwaine shut the door behind him and stepped down to join her. "You're walking me home?" she said.

He shrugged. "Just a precaution. Merlin insists he never used fire on the Collins witch."

"What do you think that means?" Freya said. She hadn't seen the body, and was glad of it, but didn't know whether to hope it was just a blank spot in Merlin's memory.

Gwaine shrugged again, conveying not the lack of an opinion, but the unwillingness to reveal it. He slowed the stride that was a bit inclined to swagger, to match hers. "Pretty eventful day, huh?" he said. "If anyone had told me three days ago I'd be having an open-air lunch with royalty and nobility and magic and you," he shot her a twinkly smirk, "I'd have sent _them_ to Alator to have their head checked."

"Mm," she said. "Do you think they're all like that, or we just got lucky today?"

"Didn't feel like luck," he said. "But no, royalty and nobility are _not_ all like that. And I get the feeling that Merlin may be in a class of his own."

She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn't meet them, pretending ignorance of his scrutiny of her reaction. "Do you suppose Prince Arthur will marry Lady Guinevere?" she said reflectively. "They certainly seemed comfortable together, and she was watching him when you all were trying to drop your knives into each others' feet."

He huffed indignantly at her slight to their game, but knew she was teasing. "I think he'd be a fool not to," he answered her question. "And from what I've seen, Arthur's no fool."

She thought about Lady Guinevere, beautiful in her dark yellow dress, fine and well-made and yet plain enough to make no one feel self-conscious while she was among the common people of her city. Going to Camelot, the famed white citadel, to marry a prince there in the great halls and someday wear the crown of a queen. To become closely acquainted with a court physician whose name was renowned, and friends with a sorcerer of Merlin's caliber and character… which of course was the only way she envisioned this nightmare ending. Anything else was… unthinkable.

"I wonder what Camelot is like," she said wistfully to Gwaine.

"Freya…" he said, and she cringed, expecting what he would say. "About this morning. Merlin, and…that kiss." She could feel the color fire her cheeks, and didn't look at him. "I'm just as grateful as you are, that he saved you – twice – and he seems a better-than-decent person. And, I suppose, not completely ugly." She rolled her eyes at him; he didn't quite grin. "But, Freya –"

"I know," she said in a low voice. They walked to the next turn in silence. "I do owe him, Gwaine, whatever it takes to help break the curse. And then…" she trailed off.

He sighed, "I know." After another moment, when the main street came into view, forty feet down another row, he added, "He reminds me a bit of –"

"Gareth. Yes. But at the same time, he's –"

"Completely different." Gwaine gave her a wryly twisted grin. "A good friend to have. And the sort to remember a friend for life. But – that's all."

"I know."

They came out of the alley alert to the foot- and wheeled traffic in the main street, as they crossed to the West Half of Lionys. Freya turned to look up at the towers of the palace visible at the southern end of the street, wondering as she had wondered in Halig's tiny cage, what they would wear tonight, what they would eat. The privileged classes. Merlin would be one of them, tonight, if not for her.

Catching sight of the building where their home was in the rear, she thought of the plants that needed watering, the ones that needed moving to the roof for spring sunshine – the snowdrop and the sweet-william and the violet. And her growing list for her forest excursion, which would have to wait. She didn't want to be long away from Merlin, as if she was afraid that something would happen while she was not there.

But as they came closer, she noticed that Shefydd was sitting on his threshold, his shirt loose over his trousers – no belt, no vest, no jacket – and both rumpled and stained as if he had not changed that morning. Or last night. His white hair, long and wispy and usually worn in a neat queue at his neck, was unbound and disorderly, and he stared vacantly at the passersby. Freya's heart squeezed; she had entirely forgotten her neighbors' plight in their worry over Merlin.

Gwaine cursed and hurried ahead of her, kneeling down beside the old man. "Shef?" he said. "Nell hasn't been found? She's not back?" The old man looked up into Gwaine's face and made no reply.

Freya stepped past them, patting Shef's shoulder. She was inside the older couple's home not infrequently, and so it was a matter of minutes only to accomplish the tasks Nell would have dithered about all day – tending the fire, straightening the bed, brushing up the crumbs, sweeping the floor, washing a few dishes. Gwaine carried in a bucket of fresh water, and Shef wandered after him, sitting quietly in his chair by the fireplace. Freya found a passable meal for the old man and left a plate next to him on the hearth, adding a few items of clothing to those of Merlin's she was adding to those of hers and Gwaine's.

Gwaine said, to her and Shef both, "I'll go to speak to the guard on duty, see if I can find anything out." Shef didn't respond.

"I'm going back to Alator's for dinner," Freya told him, and he nodded.

"I'll help search for Nell til then, right, Shef?"

She lingered at the doorstep as Gwaine strode away, looking back at the old man, gazing forlornly at his wrinkled hands a-tremble in his lap. Lost without the wife and companion of decades. It made her sorrow for him, hope that Nell would be found soon, and all right.

It made her wonder, for herself.

As she returned to her home to heat the water for the laundry and began to sort through Gwaine's things, she wondered still. Whether she would someday find herself as Finna or Alator did, living to help the members of the community around her, but living alone. Whether she would someday find herself as her father had, as Shef did – hopefully temporarily – missing a life partner so much that she was lost.

Which road was better traveled. Whether she'd ever have that choice.

She scrubbed Gwaine's socks wondering if or when her brother would truly fall for some girl. What her choice would be, then. She pinned Shef's and Nell's things to the lines strung overhead near the fire, between bundles of dried herbs.

And she immersed her hands and Merlin's shirt in the lukewarm water, soapsuds floating on the surface, and worked at the bloodstain. _I know_, she told Gwaine in her mind. But still, couldn't help thinking about him. Powerful, highly placed in a mighty kingdom, a foreign kingdom. All very good reasons why she ought to deny the way she couldn't help feeling. Protect her heart from the loneliness that would surely come, no matter what the outcome of the curse. He was not for her. _I know_.

The laundry dripping and the fire banked, Freya returned to her neighbors' home, where the door was still open and Shef still motionless in his seat. His plate had not been touched. She went quietly to sit on the hearth beside him, and coax the old man through his meal.

…**..*…..**

LCT: I think probably I'll let it slide, Freya calling Merlin my love. That maybe he didn't even hear her properly, and neither Alator nor Gwaine was close enough, that maybe she didn't even mean to say it, and didn't really realize it at the time, either… It might be next chapter when the conclusion of the curse is reached, or it might last another two, we'll have to see… Glad you like the idea of Gwen's family as nobility, I thought it would be interesting to explore a more 'legendary' version of their relationship, as a semi-arranged marriage…


	10. The Ware-Stone

**Chapter 10: The Ware-Stone**

The slanted cellar door at the back of Alator's house was closed when Freya arrived, a half an hour past dusk, so she rapped lightly at the back door instead. And when Finna opened it, eyes wide at the sight of a visitor, a wide strip of faded fabric holding wavy silver-streaked dark hair away from her plump face, Freya felt an instant of fear.

Until Finna stepped back and said, "Come in, dear. Alator has started dinner; I'm helping him here, and Master Emrys is in the front room reading. We're still waiting on your brother."

Freya entered the small living area of Alator's house, relieved that nothing had gone wrong while she'd been gone. The bald sorcerer was occupied soaking several lengths of dried sausage; Finna was evidently halfway through arranging individual bread loaves on a tray to bake. Freya set a small basket of fresh greens she'd bought from someone who had been harvesting the first of the forest's spring bounty on the table, and paused in the half-curtained doorway.

Merlin straddled his chair and leaned over the table, stacks of books and pamphlets illuminated by a single candle, one of which actually rose higher than his head, so close was he to the tome spread flat before him. Jacket discarded and sleeves of a clean shirt – deep blue, and it suited him - rolled to his elbows. One arm encircled his book, the other elbow bent to allow his long fingers shoved through and gripping his hair. The druid swirls shone, the tiny scales reflecting deep green where they caught the light, opaque black where they were angled away.

He was reading as though his life depended on it; she hoped it didn't.

Merlin didn't raise his eyes as she came into the dimly-lit room and crossed to his side, but he leaned sideways until head and shoulder rested comfortably against her middle. She glanced at the page over his shoulder, but couldn't read whatever language it was written in – and without thinking, she put her hand on his hair, much as she'd often done with Gareth when he was small, and very rarely these days, when Gwaine was sitting exhausted or discouraged at their table.

It was glossy and thick after its earlier washing, and she couldn't help combing her fingers through its softness, even down the back of his neck where it grew now shorter and thicker, as far as her fingers could reach down inside his collar, extending in the stripe down his backbone. Briefly he turned the side of his face into her dress at her waist, nuzzling at her like a very small child. Or a very large cat. She froze, her stomach flipping over, but it didn't seem to her that he even realized what he was doing.

Then he shifted his arm beside the book, and it looked like he was studying the tattoos, rather than the words on the page.

"Feels strange," he said.

She wasn't sure if he was asking her or telling her. She leaned forward to rub her fingertips down his forearm, the scale-covered tattoos feeling like thick calluses swirled over the softer skin underneath, dry and smooth. Her movement prompted him to shift away from her again, and she pulled a second chair around the edge of the small circular table.

"You're quiet," he said, looking at her. He didn't bother to cover the abnormality of his forearms, as if he thought nothing of it, or knew that she didn't, either. "What's wrong?"

"Nell is still missing," she told him. "I just… I feel sorry for Shefydd. I don't think he likes to be alone."

His eyes seemed to shine a little more. "I'm so sorry," he told her quietly.

She nodded in silent acceptance of his sympathy. "What are you reading?" she asked.

He straightened, taking a deep breath. "I don't know if reading is the right word," he told her with an amused quirk of his lips.

That distracted her too, momentarily – now that he'd washed, she wondered what he'd taste like… _No_, she reminded herself fiercely. _He's not for you_.

"Gaius has been teaching me, but I'm far from fluent. These are some writings of Taliesin, one of the greatest sorcerers Albion has ever had; he lived over three hundred years ago."

Rather than a more specific question about curses, Freya said, "What is it about?"

"Crystals." His eyes were deep blue in the low light, animated in the appreciation of his studies. She thought she could watch the expression of his eyes forever and be satisfied, as long as he didn't realize she was doing it. "Most notably, the crystals that have the power to show truth – past, present, and future, to those who know how to use them. There is one such in Camelot, but evidently its origin is in a cave hidden in a valley a half-day's ride west of the city. I may have to try to find it someday…" Even as she smiled to herself over his unconscious assumption of the outcome of the situation with the curse, his eyes dropped to the glittering scales, and a measure of life left his face.

"Any particular reason you chose that?" she asked, eyeing the top page on the stack nearest her; the one she could read was titled, _Of Auguries and Dreams_. Why was he choosing, then, to work his way through a more obscure text?

"Last autumn, the crystal was stolen from Camelot," Merlin told her. "Renegade druids. In the retrieval of it, some… things happened. Interesting, troubling…" His eyes flicked up to hers; she said nothing, but leaned her own elbow on the table, resting her temple against the heel of her hand to indicate her willingness to listen. "One of the druids had seen something of the future in it," he continued, "a future he wished not to come to pass. Later, he was wounded, and chose to die rather than attempt healing. And a few hours later… I looked into the crystal."

His expression didn't change, but his eyes took on a quality that was ancient, and haunting. "What did you see?" she said softly.

"Two of the visions I saw have come to pass," Merlin said, answering obliquely. "It is the third I would prevent. I saw the Princess Morgana crowned queen of Camelot." Freya considered this; Arthur was the older Pendragon, the heir. The princess would only take the throne in the event of his death without heirs of his own.

"You have questions," she said, "and you're looking for answers here?" She tapped the corner of the page with her forefinger.

His lips tightened and he gave his head a quick little shake of frustration. "I don't know exactly what Mordred saw, before he chose death; I don't know if it's _possible_ to prevent the events of the vision in such a way. Aithusa once told me it was dangerous to meddle with the future, that you were just as likely to _cause_ what you're trying to _avoid_."

"Aithusa?" someone said from the doorway, and they both jumped at the same time, turning as Gwaine sauntered in.

Merlin gave him a welcoming smile – a genuine smile, even as the darker struggle of thoughts she'd glimpsed receded. Not so much as if he were trying to hide something from Gwaine, but as though he'd learned to set his worries aside out of consideration for those whose company he shared, and enjoy the lighter emotions the moment brought without their hindrance. Not many people could do that, Freya thought.

"My dragon," the sorcerer said with a mischievous smirk.

"Oh, your dragon." Gwaine scoffed, grinning back. "Dinner's ready – and I look forward to hearing some of _your_ stories tonight, my friend."

Freya followed them into Alator's kitchen. She couldn't help smiling at the two – so very different and yet getting along so well in such a short amount of time. Gwaine teased and provoked Merlin to better spirits, and Merlin answered in kind without taking offense, stepping right into the role of the younger brother, whether he realized it or not.

And Finna, wide-eyed and childlike as ever, willing to be astonished at the stories and claims of the two young men, while Alator grumbled skeptically in the corner…

_We could almost be a family, here tonight, if you closed one eye and squinted with the other_, she thought, and swallowed the lump in her throat with difficulty, along with a bit of Finna's fresh bread.

True to his challenge, Gwaine kept up a series of questions that drew story after explanation after story out of the young sorcerer from Camelot. With much, Freya suspected, the same goal as he'd told his own stories the night before. To pass the time, to divert Merlin's thoughts from their circumstances.

But as Merlin spoke of Aithusa, the young white dragon he'd run wild with in the hills and forests around Dinas Emrys and the farming village of Ealdor… as he described with dry wit and respect his years apprenticed to one of the best medical minds of their time, under the eye of a warlord king irrationally prejudiced against magic and especially dragons… as he spoke of his prince with sarcasm and hope, loyalty and an emotion deeper than love… Freya saw another result of the conversation.

Through his reminiscing, Merlin couldn't help but be reminded of how very much he had to live for.

In a few short hours, they would retreat below ground, to chain and restrain his body and fight and fight to keep his spirit. With these images in his head, these feelings fresh in his heart, Freya hoped, how could they fail?

The food gone, the dishes washed, Finna left for her home. Merlin took a mug of watered wine mixed with another of the plump healer's concoctions and a grimace, back to the table of books, and Gwaine joined him with a mug of unwatered wine. Alator remained in the back area of his home, napping in his own bed, Freya suspected, until midnight was closer.

She placed cushions on a bench below one of Alator's shelves on the side of the room opposite Gwaine and Merlin at the table, and paged absently through an outdated treatise on the 'worts' – motherwort, dragonwort, milkwort, to name a few she was familiar with. Too far to hear what the men were saying, and yet close enough to be lulled by the murmur of their voices. It reminded her of curling up safe in her alcove, protected and reassured by the domestic noises of another loved one in the room. One cushion under her hip, under her ribs, under her elbow as she rested her head on her hand. And slowly she stretched out until her arm was curled beneath her head on the cushion and the lines of the words and sketches on the page swam in the dim candlelight.

Gwaine let out a quiet snore, and she opened her eyes to see that he'd fallen asleep slumped in his chair, head hanging over the high back, legs sprawled before him. Merlin reached over without looking up from his page to remove the mug from Gwaine's slackened grip.

She blinked, and now Merlin's chair was empty. She hadn't even a moment to wonder, to worry, and she felt someone's hands arranging the light weight of extra fabric over her for warmth. Merlin's eyes crinkled at the corners as he slid the treatise out from under her elbow, and she put out her hand to grasp the collar of his jacket where it was draped over her shoulder.

It might have been a minute later, or an hour, but she woke startled to a man's voice spitting out a shockingly foul curse. Gwaine, she thought, but the voice wasn't right, and as she dragged her eyelids open, she saw her brother snort and struggle awake also.

Merlin was on his feet next to the chair, alarm vibrating through him as he stared with frightening intensity at – nothing at all. Into the blank air, for all she could see.

"What is it, mate?" Gwaine said, straightening and fighting the lethargy that pulled at her body and mind also. "What's wrong? It's not midnight yet?"

"Oh," Merlin said, not to either of them, but as if in response to some terrible news, received with such fatalistic calm it set dread curling uncomfortably inside her. "Oh, _no_."

The cushions fell as she finally pushed herself to her feet, a few seconds after Gwaine. "What, Merlin?" she asked, quietly so she did not disturb him unduly.

Still with that faraway look of dreadful concentration, he told them, "Mary's come home."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen was relieved when she was finally allowed to sink into her chair at the head table, in preparation for the serving of food to commence. The banquet had been ongoing for hours, already.

The de Gransses, of course, had to be ready in the hall when the first guests arrived, some from quarters in the palace - like the knights, married or single each was allowed to escort a female guest. Then minor nobility, a few members of Lord Lionel's council, prominent leading citizens, from Lionys or having arrived that afternoon from surrounding acreages.

Of course there would be those who came late, and then there was the official welcome of the guest of honor, Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. Looking every inch the prince, from his shining golden hair down the impressive chainmail overlaid with crimson tunic embroidered with the golden rampant dragon of his kingdom's crest. Head high and hand negligently resting atop the swordhilt belted around his waist, Gwen watched him surreptitiously through the preliminary couple hours of the banquet.

She wondered if Merlin's dragon charm lay beneath the layers of Arthur's more obvious protection. The parchment of the scroll the sorcerer had given her rustled a bit in the silk-lined pocket of her gown.

Lots of mingling and chatting, light drinking and bite-size finger-foods on circulating servants' trays to whet the appetite. Music, though the dancing would be after the formal dinner had been cleared. Arthur's attention remained on whatever individual had claimed it at the moment, though one of his three knights was almost always within arms' reach of their prince, and their attention was spread wider, through the room, vigilant.

_So far, so good_, she told herself, relaxing into her chair. _Not even a hint of a threat._ She worked her foot in its thin embroidered slipper, which matched the plum-colored silk gown that _she_ wore this evening, under the cover of the table. Her ankle had not given her trouble walking the town that morning, but if she wanted to be in any shape to dance, she had to rest it. And she found she did wonder about the prince's abilities – generally speaking, men trained to the sword were light and balanced on their feet, but there were exceptions. Percival was one.

"Are you all right?" Arthur said to her in an undertone, settling himself into the chair next to her as the other guests, at the high table and elsewhere, took their seats as well.

The high table had balanced the absence of Arthur's sorcerer by seating her at her father's right as the leading lady of Lionys. That way Elyan and Lancelot were on their left next to the host, and Arthur and Leon on the right next to her, the other two knights of Camelot at a lower table with their peers. Rather than the more appropriate setting of Arthur as the ranking guest on Lionel's right, and Elyan on his left, putting Gwen between Arthur and Leon, or even Arthur and Lancelot – the very idea made her cringe. Or being several seats away from the prince that had come with a potential proposal in mind, on her father's opposite side.

She smiled, hoping he would understand, and said, mock-serious, "He's a courteous young man, he'll be a fine king one day."

He looked at her for a surprised moment, then gave her a lopsided grin, returning in kind, "She's a lovely young lady and will make someone a wonderful wife."

She sighed. "I love Lionys and all its people," she told him sincerely, "just – not all at once." His blue eyes twinkled from the regal, stoic expression he'd been wearing all evening. "It's probably worse for you," she said, leaning forward enough to include Leon at Arthur's other side in the remark. "At least I know these people well enough to carry on a decent conversation, while you must meet stranger after stranger and remember names and details and answer the same questions diplomatically, again and again."

"Perhaps he should simply give a speech," Leon suggested in a misleadingly bland tone, and Arthur gave him a glare over the rim of his wine goblet.

"Oh, yes," Gwen picked up the line of teasing. "The state of Camelot, recent changes in policy, the health of the king, the responsibilities of a crown prince…"

"We'd be here all night," Arthur said, leaning forward as a servant on the opposite side of the table deposited an enormous tray of artistically-arranged sliced smoked ham, garnished with fresh leafy greens.

"We may, anyway," Gwen warned, then added, "Thank you," as he served a portion to her plate before his own. She saw in his eyes and on his face the shadow of the memory of midnight, and began to talk, keeping the conversation light and slow enough for them to be able to eat at the same time, giving Arthur bits of advice and clarifications on the most important guests.

This lord was blind in his right eye, so be sure to stand by his left, or at least don't be offended that he turns sideways when speaking to you… That dowager lady is almost completely deaf but won't admit it, speak loudly and slowly and always where she can see you… Those two share a land-boundary but make it a point of honor never to agree on anything… That merchant only this month turned the daily administration of his trade over to his grandson…

It did occur to her, that this was all the sort of information that would only be useful to him if he did marry the lady of the land. And she couldn't help wondering if he would be making an effort to remember the information past this night, or not. Either way, between her comments and Leon's occasional responses, Arthur did gradually relax.

"Your turn," she finally said to him, sitting back in her own chair.

"Pardon?" he said.

"Tell me about Camelot," she said. "Your family – your father. What's he like?"

"My father is… king," he said awkwardly.

She wondered if she'd inadvertently asked one of those 'hard questions'. But beside her, Lord Lionel was speaking to Elyan and Lancelot on his other side; Leon was still included in their conversation, but he was a quiet listener who soothed awkwardness with a gentle wry manner, acknowledging his inclusion with an occasional glance, but just as easily turning his attention to his plate or the rest of the room to give the two of them a greater illusion of intimacy in the crowd. And surely he knew his king's character by now, anyway.

"He's strict," Arthur went on, and she recognized that he was struggling a bit to describe his father, their relationship, in terms that would be honest – in light of their possible future connections – but as gracious as possible. "He's a good leader. He doesn't show weakness or indecision, he enforces and upholds the law absolutely. He provides for our peoples' needs first in every situation. He…" Arthur twisted his goblet on the snowy linen tablecloth for a troubled moment, then lifted his eyes to her. "He's a warlord," he finally said.

Which meant, Gwen could guess, that he'd been pretty hard on his son and heir.

Leon said neutrally, "He would never sit on the ground to eat with commoners. He would never show himself in public without first giving every attention to his appearance. He gives no one's opinion greater weight than his own. And he would never –" the older knight turned to look Arthur in the eye – "waste one moment worrying about a sorcerer."

Arthur grimaced at him, but didn't argue. And Gwen realized that not a single word Leon had said had been either untrue or disrespectful.

"He must be a good man," Gwen decided, and surprised both of them into looking at her. "I mean, he lost his own wife many years ago, didn't he?"

"When I was born," Arthur said, with a quizzical look.

"So – he had the raising of you alone," Gwen concluded, feeling an inexplicable warmth in her cheeks. "I'd say he's done a fine job – he must be a good man."

Arthur looked astonished, as if he'd never heard a compliment before. Leon said calmly, "I think it could be argued that Arthur is in spite of Uther…"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Mary's dead," Gwaine reminded Merlin, with a troubled look at Freya.

Merlin correctly softly, "_Nell's_ dead."

"What?"

Even as her heart twisted with grief for the sweet, absent-minded old woman – and who would tell Shef, sitting alone by his fire, that Nell wasn't coming home again, this time? - Freya couldn't help remembering what Merlin told her about his first visit to Thomas' home, the night they'd met. "He left a ware-stone in the Collins house," she told Gwaine. "I guess as a warning when anyone went inside?"

"So he can see inside there from here?" Gwaine said with a touch of disbelief. "And she… so that was Nell that we… damn _witch_," he finished viciously.

"She's got a basin," Merlin said softly, his eyes still unfocused. "Pouring a bucketful of water in it – the angle's wrong, I can't see the surface, what she's scrying…" His head twisted as though he was listening. "She's contacted someone, making a deal, promising freedom in exchange for – oh, _hells_."

"What?" Gwaine said.

Merlin took one long quick step forward so he was between them, lowering his head and his eyebrows, his lips moving silently. Then he said, "An unlocking spell. An unlocking spell? That wouldn't work against the wall-wards on the palace." His face twisted in confusion, he reached out almost absently to take his jacket from Freya's shoulder, and jammed his arms into it, so familiar with the garment and the action that he could do it without paying any attention to it whatsoever.

Gwaine stepped into his way when he turned to the door. "Where do you think you're going?" he said. Freya stepped to Gwaine's side so she could see Merlin's face also; he blinked and focused on Gwaine.

"She's sent someone to kill Arthur." Merlin's voice was an earnest plea for understanding.

"She can't get into the palace," Gwaine explained patiently, carefully, as though to a child. "The wall-wards will keep her out, and anyone else who is a stranger or intends violence. The prince is fine; he's safe."

Merlin shook his head slowly as if he wanted to argue but couldn't think of the right words, instinct fearing, maybe, what logic declared impossible.

Only… unlocking spells reminded her of a tiny barred cage and a dark moldy room and a man whose wide leather belt sagged with his gut as lamplight gleamed from greasy skin visible beneath the bristles of gray hair. A man who'd said of Thomas Collins, _I've done business with him before_…

An unlocking spell. "Gwaine, you said," she began, her throat tight in sudden fear, "they locked Halig and his men in Lord Lionel's dungeon. The wall-wards… don't keep out the criminals that the knights bring in, do they?"

Gwaine looked at Merlin with a sudden focus of alert trust, but stopped him once again with a hand on his chest. "Half a dozen slavers won't get far," he told the younger man. "Every one of the knights at the banquet, most of the guard pulled from the city to stand on ceremony – they won't even make it in the room, Merlin. They don't need you, you have to stay here."

Merlin twitched, and his gaze slipped past Gwaine, once again focusing on his mind's eye. "No," he said suddenly, flinging out one hand to cling to Gwaine's shoulder. "No, _stop_! She – oh, _damn_. Gwaine, let me go." Tears shone in the blue depths of his eyes. "She's laying an enchantment – through the scrying-water, she's strong enough for that – Gwaine, a sleeping spell. Everyone in the hall, everyone in the palace. Except Halig. He'll kill Arthur and walk free." He blinked, and a tear slipped. "Please, let me go." He was leaning into Gwaine's hand, now.

"Can't you do something to stop her, through the ware-stone?" Freya suggested quickly.

Merlin shook his head impatiently. "No, it doesn't work like that, it's one-directional and –"

"I'll go," Gwaine said, bending to one side to pick up his sword – sheathed and with its belt wrapped around the hilt – from where it was propped against the wall near the door. He flipped the belt loose and slung himself into it, adjusting the fit around his hips. "You stay here – I'll go save your prince for you."

"Gwaine," Merlin said, his voice choked on fear for Arthur, his desire to go himself, and gratitude.

Gwaine flashed them a grin. "I'll sprint," he told them. "Bet I'm faster than you, anyway."

"Not if I use –" Merlin stopped. _Magic_, he didn't say.

He wasn't supposed to, today, Alator had advised. Not with it unsettled and provoked by the curse, no one knew if the results would be trustworthy. Perhaps calling the pigeon and sending a message would be quicker – but she didn't know if there was any way to guarantee such a messenger would find Arthur immediately, if he were in an inner hall with no windows, no way to know for sure unless and until Arthur responded, which would leave them waiting... And maybe Merlin had a way of transporting himself instantly, but such a thing – even she knew, in her limited experience – required strong, solid magic and was risky even so. No, not in his condition.

"_Wait_," he said, so intensely he didn't have to touch Gwaine to check his departure momentarily. "How many slavers?"

"Halig, five others – two were injured, but not incapacitated."

"Merlin?" she ventured, when he didn't move or speak for a moment, looking south as though he could see the towers of the palace through the door, the dark and the distance.

"Emrys?" Alator's voice from the half-curtained doorway. "What is it?"

"Mary Collins isn't dead," Freya told him quickly. "She must have… used our neighbor, Nell, she's been missing… to make everyone believe Merlin killed her, but… he left a ware-stone in their house, and he's just seen her let Halig and his slavers out of the dungeon so they can kill the prince, and she's doing magic now –" she glanced up at Merlin and he nodded once in confirmation without meeting her eyes – "to make sure everyone is asleep so it can be done. Gwaine's going to the palace to help stop them."

A little shiver coursed through Merlin's frame. "I've dealt with this sort of enchantment before," he told them all, and faced Gwaine. "It won't be lifted except by the caster's will – or death. She's exempted Halig's men, but it'll be minutes only before you're affected… and then just a matter of time." Freya lifted her hand to her mouth, she hadn't realized that.

"It doesn't matter," Gwaine said evenly. "I'll go anyway. I'll just have to fight fast."

Merlin turned then to look at Alator, who crossed the room immediately. "I have to go to the Collins house."

"Too close to midnight," Alator said immediately. "You couldn't get back here in time. I'll go."

"You can't," Merlin said. "I'm sorry. She's too strong for you. Even if you take her by surprise."

Freya suggested swiftly, "What if Gwaine goes with Alator, instead of to the palace? If she believes that we think she's dead, she won't expect you, then if the enchantment is broken, then the knights will be able to defend themselves. Then Merlin could stay here…"

He reached out without looking to take her hand, his eyes on the floor. His voice was so gentle it broke her heart. "Let Gwaine fight the battle he has the skills for; let me fight mine."

Gwaine protested, "But your magic is –"

"It will suffice for this," Merlin said, dropping her hand and stepping to the threshold beside Gwaine.

"The curse, Emrys," Alator reminded him.

"His life is more important," Merlin told them. "You will not be able to stop me, until this is finished." Suddenly the cheerful gentle physician's apprentice had become a terribly implacable warlock.

"I'll go with you, then," the older sorcerer said decisively. His hand moved, and Freya glanced down to see him checking the hilt of a belt-knife. "Someone has to make sure you don't kill any innocents."

One corner of Merlin's mouth lifted in a cynical little smile, but he said nothing, only nodded agreement.

"Wait, do you know what you're _saying_," she said desperately, to all of them. If Merlin wasn't here, he would change, and then… he would be killed, or he would be lost. The cynicism that twisted his lips dropped away, and his smile was pure. No hesitation, to give himself for another… for Arthur. _But he _needs_ you_…

"You stay here," Gwaine said to her, and Merlin and Alator looked at her also, all of them at once, so that she took a half-step back under the combined weight of three fierce looks. Then her brother yanked the door open and took off on a dead run, true to his word, Merlin on his heels but heading a different direction. Alator moved quickly in the shadows, following the taller, slender shadow of the young sorcerer.

She hesitated, but only a moment. Perhaps the rest of them could agree that Merlin's risk was necessary, the sacrifice of his life or humanity worth saving the heir of another kingdom, the prince of Camelot, his friend, but she did _not_ have to accept that as the only option for him.

Because there was no one to hear, she added strong language to fortify her resolve. "The hell I will."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Do you have other family?" Gwen asked, trying to steer their conversation away from the controversy that evidently was Uther Pendragon.

"Mm. My uncle, my mother's brother – well, she had two brothers, but the eldest died years ago. Lord Agravaine –" Leon covered a snort almost believably with a cough and a sip of wine; Arthur ignored him. "Was in Camelot the week before we left; he was intending to make a long visit."

"Oh, does he not live in Camelot usually?" Gwen asked. Leon's reaction, and Arthur's lack of one, made her curious.

"He handles an estate on our western border; he commands a contingent of knights that guards our lands and people from Odin."

Odin she'd heard of, before. He had the same sort of origins as Uther himself, another warlord who'd carved a kingdom from the wilderness, but one with no intention of providing peace and safety for the lands he held, instead squeezing profit and manipulating advantage and everywhere pushing his borders. She was thankful that several other Southron provinces and Camelot's ally Nemeth lay between Odin and Lionys.

Arthur slowly straightened, leaning on his forearms against the edge of the table. "Or at least," he said deliberately, "he's supposed to be."

Gwen looked at Leon, who was completely absorbed in his place setting, though his plate was nearly empty. "I don't follow?" she ventured.

"He had a treaty he wanted to discuss with my father," Arthur said slowly, eyes and thoughts far away from the sights and sounds and smells of the banquet hall. "I didn't pay much attention, I was occupied with preparations for this trip, but…" he cocked his head as though trying to remember something, or reason through a difficult calculation, then turned slightly toward his senior knight, addressing Leon without excluding her. "I find myself thinking of the last time we suspected Odin's men of attacking us on Camelot's soil. We were in company with the High Priestess."

Gwen blurted, "_Really_?" The priestesses were secretive and mysterious, the one woman who led and governed them even more so. A position, it was rumored, that had turned over in recent years to… Morgause of the House of Gorlois.

Arthur gave her a smile, patient with and unoffended at her interruption. "My father had a brief liaison with Morgause's mother Vivienne, Gorlois' widow. Thus, my half-sister Morgana is also the half-sister of the High Priestess." He paused, then said deliberately, "One of the reasons why she's studying magic at the Isle." Another pause, while Arthur frowned and turned his goblet on the tabletop. "Where Mary Collins studied, evidently, years ago."

Gwen was speechless. Last week she'd have laughed at any who suggested the old kitchen servant capable of significant sorcery, now she was finding out that Mary had been an initiate of the Old Religion? Almost guiltily, she thought that this was not banquet pleasantries nor even private dinner conversation – though no one was close enough to overhear.

Leon commented, "Morgause never showed much interest in you."

"Morgause wanted Morgana, I think," Arthur said, briefly rubbing the bridge of his nose. "She _has_ her. She wanted Merlin too, I suspect, but whether allied with her, or simply not allied with Camelot, I couldn't say for sure."

Leon drummed his fingers once on the edge of the table. "Arthur," he said. "When Thomas threw that first fireball, in the street… was it aimed for you or Merlin?"

Arthur turned his head slowly. "Merlin shielded both of us. Was it aimed… I don't know."

"Are we sure, then, that it was you the assassin was meant to kill?" Leon said, mild but persistent.

Arthur shook his head. "Who would want to kill Merlin?" he protested. "That gains nothing for anyone but –"

"Your vulnerability," Leon pointed out.

"But your death gains nothing for anyone, either," Gwen mentioned. "I mean, it would be like someone trying to kill Elyan. My father – your father – would still have another heir."

"Odin has long wanted me dead," Arthur explained to her. "This wouldn't be the first time he hired an assassin."

"You think maybe he has an understanding with someone on the priestesses' isle?" Leon said. "You think maybe he's misleading Agravaine with this treaty, maybe he's planning something else?"

"With Morgause, even?" Arthur's lips tightened. "It's not an unreasonable assumption, I suppose."

"Myror had no magic," Leon said quietly. "Perhaps this time Odin felt someone else was needed."

"Someone capable of sorcery," Arthur agreed grimly, casting a wary eye around the room. "Someone to take advantage of my absence from Camelot, someone who could effectively separate me from Merlin… Damn." He glanced swiftly at Gwen. "Sorry."

"I suppose that's the thing with assassins," she sighed. Three days ago this conversation would have felt highly surreal to her. "Even when they're stopped and… well, essentially executed, there's still the problem of who hired them. I can't imagine that Mary or Thomas had anything against you or Merlin personally."

Arthur exchanged a glance with Leon. "Merlin isn't convinced –" he began.

And halfway through his sentence his voice dropped to a low hum, that reminded her of nothing so much as when she allowed herself to sink back into the luxuriously relaxing warmth of her bath, and listened to Enid through the water filling her ears.

She watched Leon cover a yawn and lean back in his chair. Yes, that looked comfortable. She did the same, keeping her head turned toward Arthur, who seemed incongruously tense and alarmed. _No need for that_, she thought. _We're safe here in the palace. The wall-wards…_

A passing servant bent to lay an empty tray at the corner of the next table, and that was odd enough that she turned her head from curiosity, or a sense that she was responsible to correct the oversight, when the servant kept going down, below the edge of the table, out of sight behind the draping of the white linen cover. Not swiftly, as though he'd tripped, just gently, like picking something up or kneeling down or…

Falling asleep.

…**..*…..**

LCT: Yeah, I'm sorry about Nell… there was kind of a hole in my original plot (I admit it, it happens sometimes) which I had to fill after the story was started, so this is the result… I'm not really big on character deaths, even minor ones, but this particular sequence seemed like the time/place for it to happen… and I'm sorry in advance for other minor character deaths…


	11. Broken

**Chapter 11: Broken**

_Falling asleep…_

Gwen's whole body was gradually too heavy to move, though she could still see the line of courtiers seated at the left-hand table arranged at right-angles to their own high table. Every one of whom had allowed their head to drop back onto their chair, or forward onto arms or even right to the table. Or sideways onto a neighbor…

She wished she'd thought of that. It would be nice to rest and sleep with her head on Arthur's shoulder… in spite of the chainmail… only she couldn't move anymore.

_Guinevere_. He was speaking to her, though, rising from his chair to lean forward into her field of vision, angry-worried. _Are you all right? Can you hear me?_

She could, though it occurred to her that she couldn't hear anything else. No sounds of dishes or tableware or conversation or footfalls or music… She wanted to respond to Arthur, but couldn't. And didn't suppose it greatly mattered, one way or the other, because she was perfectly fine, there was nothing to be worried about, she could reassure him later.

He turned his head to look down the row of sleeping diners, himself, and she had the impression of a hunter's focus drawing to a point. He retreated… but only momentarily, rounding the corner of the high table, passing between it and the end of the one on the left. He stepped carefully, in a wary semi-crouch, and his sword was in his hand.

What was he doing? She was confused – they were all so tired, they should sleep, not prowl about with sharp bare blades in their hands.

He glanced down where the servant had disappeared, then bent briefly, straightening again alone.

Movement flickered at the corner of the room behind him, and it took her a moment to persuade her eyes to focus on something so far away it couldn't possibly concern her. Then half a dozen men stepped obligingly forward into the greater light.

Arthur moved toward them in his half-crouch, sword at the ready by his side. It was quite similar to how she'd seen him move that morning – only that morning? – on the training field. But with an awful intensity that told her, this was not training.

Rough men, the six. Dirty and unshaven, in clothes the servants of the household would scorn, two of them sporting bandages, around head, and around hand. Their expressions varied from greedy to vengeful, but all struck fear into her heart, and roused her enough to be able to focus on their words.

"Arthur Pendragon. The prince of Camelot. She said we'd find you here." The biggest man spoke. Maybe fat and maybe slow, but he had an air of confidence the others didn't, and the way they looked to him and spread to either side, said he was the leader.

"And who the hell are you?" Arthur returned evenly, his voice carrying in the silent room even though he faced away from Gwen.

"Halig." The fat man adjusted his belt.

Halig? Gwen thought. Impossible; the slave-trader was safely locked in the dungeon, awaiting her father's sentencing.

"Now. Nothing personal, my lord, but – put down your sword. You're going to come with us. She decided to kill you herself."

"She?" Arthur said, prowling a few steps forward.

Halig glanced to one side, and two of the five moved closer to the table and the seats of the sleeping guests, one in a filthy shirt the orange color of rust, the other with a dingy bandage wrapped around his head, moving a bit unsteadily, it seemed to Gwen. That frightened her, for some reason.

"Now, now, princeling," the slave-trader said composedly. "We've a roomful of helpless hostages here. And no witnesses. Put down your sword… now."

For a moment, no one moved. Then Halig's men stepped beside two guests, each with a gleaming blade in hand – one at the throat of a knight, just above the clasp of his blood-red cloak, and one next to one of the ladies.  
Arthur bent and laid his sword on the floor, the light ring of metal on stone clear and terrible.

_No_, Gwen thought. _No, this is wrong. Arthur, run!_ He must not let himself be killed, she knew that as an absolute certainty. But what would prevent that, now.

Halig flicked a fat sausage finger, and a grizzled older man at the far right edge of her vision disappeared toward another door she knew was at that corner of the room. The other two, one in a grimy green shirt and the other the one with his hand bandaged, stepped forward. Arthur's body blocked her view of them, but the green-shirted one stayed uneasily out of the prince's reach, shifty eyes on Arthur's face, as Arthur ignored him to watch Halig. Then he bent, and the slight clatter of Arthur's sword was mixed with a ripping noise she couldn't immediately identify. Until the one with the bandaged hand stood before Arthur with a strip of tablecloth in his hands. Green-shirt leveled Arthur's own sword at his neck, his fear of the prince plain on his face, but Arthur allowed the second to bind his hands together in front of him, viciously tight, if Gwen was any judge, but she couldn't see that Arthur reacted much.

"Come, my lord," Halig said mockingly. "You have another invitation to answer, tonight." Green-shirt circled Arthur to prod him forward; the one with the bandaged hand retreated out of Gwen's sight in the direction the grizzled older man had taken.

Arthur reached the end of the two long parallel tables, not ten feet from Halig. Gwen struggled uselessly against whatever force held her immobile, frightened beyond words to watch these men simply walk Arthur away.

"Oh, one more thing, sire. Mary wanted me to tell you, this is for Thomas." The fat man turned and added to the two who still threatened sleeping guests with their knives, "Not _that_ lady, Ainn." Halig sent a rotten grimacing smile down the length of the room – right to Gwen.

The one in the rust-colored shirt met her eyes, emotionlessly acknowledging the change of victim, completely careless of her identity and rank.

Halig added, "And kill the big knight in Lionys green, at the far end of that table, too."

Arthur swung around, and his eyes connected with hers, widened in realization of Halig's intention, and her awareness. Anger and determination surged through him visibly, and he ducked smoothly under the awkward blow attempted by Green-shirt behind him. The prince shoved the slaver hard with one shoulder, knocking him off balance.

And suddenly it seemed they were all moving too fast for Gwen to see, to understand what their violent motion was about.

Blood sprayed at the far end of the table on the right, crimson on the snowy linen tablecloth – the face under the dingy bandage snarled as the man slashed wildly with his knife.

In the center of the tables, the slaver's sword was in Arthur's bound hands, its edge bloodied as its owner fell. Halig's blade cleared its sheath as Arthur completed his turn, but the fat man's attention diverted toward the unseen left.

Metal clanging. Men yelling. Action that she couldn't see, a living nightmare that she couldn't escape because she couldn't move. Bootheels thudded faster, nearer, the closest slaver in the rust-colored shirt determined to do his job on her, at least. Maybe thinking to subdue Arthur by threat, again. She could only watch her killer run toward her with a knife in his hand, as Arthur faced an armed opponent with his hilt clasped awkwardly between hands still bound together.

Someone shouted Arthur's name, and it wasn't Halig. A flash of silver light, and the attacker with the bandage around his head slumped over the table. Dishes scattered, sleeping guests knocked sideways.

Arthur dropped his sword and leaped for the man fallen at the table, hands outstretched. He twisted – another flash of light on metal's edge between his hands – the orange-shirted slaver left her field of vision to round Leon's chair at the end of the high table.

Arthur lunged, his upper body – arms – hands snapping forward.

Fingers fumbled at her shoulder, the lacy edge of the low-cut collar. She heard someone grunt, very close to her ear, then the sound of a body hitting the floor.

Halig stepped into an aggressive cut at Arthur's back – and his sword clanged as it met another, wielded by a brown-garbed commoner with rakishly long dark hair. Arthur turned back, as the two blades met twice more.

Someone screamed. Gwen's vision blurred briefly as all the guests seemed to move at once. To wake to shrill terror or confused alarm, and so much noise at once was painful and confusing. She heard her father swear in stentorian tones beside her.

Gwaine went down.

Halig turned on Arthur – still bound, now unarmed.

Lancelot and Leon rushed simultaneously out from each corner of the high table, swords drawn.

And Gwen found she could move again.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya wasn't foolish. She didn't go chasing after the two sorcerers in the dark. They meant to fight a witch, after all, and she could be no help to them, only a hindrance, a distraction.

But she knew where they were going.

The moon was three-quarters full, risen almost directly overhead. The few alley-lanterns were lit, providing dim but adequate lighting, but it was late enough that no one was about. Even the main street bisecting the town was deserted. She noticed the line of light around the shutter of Shef's front window as she passed, and wondered if the old man was still keeping his lonely fireside vigil.

She slowed her steps as she neared the Collins' home, her heart thundering so loudly in her ears she couldn't hear much else, and crept forward. She had no plan other than to be there, and perhaps to see; her curiosity or fear for Merlin was not worth risking anyone's life or the success of the confrontation over. Freya stopped at an intersection of three avenues, not quite in view, and heard a noise, something like drops of grease hitting a fire.

And Alator cried out in sudden alarm, "Emr-" choked off into absolute silence.

Freya took a breath, and a step, and Merlin called out, fierce and stern as a general on a battlefield, "Mary Collins! One more chance – who hired you? – and I will spare your life!"

The witch shrieked something unintelligible and the same hot-grease noise sparked through the night. Freya risked a glance around a corner; light flickered over the stone walls greater than that of a torch.

A tall slender silhouette rose and separated from a second shadowy figure huddled motionless on the ground at the base of one wall. Beyond him Freya could see the corner of a building crumbled into rubble, the room behind it blasted open. On one side a stack of crates – she hoped they'd been empty – blazed with fire. The hunched shape of the witch swayed just behind the damaged wall, straggly gray hair and claw-hands and wild eyes. Merlin stepped forward, gesturing, and Mary flung up her own hand in defense, blue light dancing away from her palm.

"You'll have to do better than that, boy!" she spat, flinging both hands outward. Merlin half-ducked, taking another step forward. "You won't take me alive! Kill me – and you'll never know who wants your precious prince a moldering carcass!"

Merlin clapped his hands together in front of him, spreading them slowly in preparation. "But your spell is broken – the prince lives."

The old woman cackled out a long phrase, and dust particles stung Freya's face and hands as a sudden gale whistled down the alley, though Merlin seemed untouched. Freya blinked and squinted; Mary clutched both hands over her heart and glanced moon-ward, her lips moving and her eyes glowing –

"No," said Merlin clearly.

The air vibrated like a struck gong, and the echo was the clap of two laths struck together. A dome of blue-gold shimmered briefly into visibility, large enough to encompass the witch and her house. But Merlin staggered, and Mary shrieked with laughter again.

"The mighty Emrys! How do you like my curse? – I can smell it from here! Who did you kill last night, murderer, your pretty whore-child?"

"Why do you force me to destroy you!" Merlin yelled at her, the desperation in his voice twisting Freya's heart. She spared a glance for the bundled figure on the ground – firelight shone from Alator's bald head, the flickering movement of the flames making it impossible to tell if he was breathing.

"That is all you're good for!" Mary put out her hand and clenched her fist; Merlin waved the attack away like it was no more than a persistent fly. But Mary laughed again exultantly, the distant hollow sound of the hour-bell incongruously peaceful between jagged breaths. "_Midnight_, you damned soulless demon!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

She could move. Gwen jumped up from her chair, knocking it backwards into Elyan behind her, bending over an orange-shirted corpse with a knife handle protruding from his chest, face frozen in a rictus of astonishment, and rounded the table herself.

Percival dashed down the side of the room to the far end of the left-hand table, where two ladies were in hysterics and more than one guest was injured. In the center, Leon almost immediately diverted to join him, sheathing his sword.

Lancelot glanced at her as she approached, then put out his arm to hold her back. She stopped, and he continued forward, pulling a knife from his belt. Arthur was on his feet; he turned at a word from Lancelot and held out his hands to have the binding strip of tablecloth cut away from his wrists. Once freed, he began winding the piece of linen almost absent around his right hand.

Gwen took a deep breath, willing the high tight fear in her chest to relax. The body on the floor was still, the green shirt stained with a darker red-black. Halig's bulk was motionless on the stone as well, the glint of blood pooling beneath him visible just under the mass of his gut. She looked to the right, for the other two slavers – the grizzled older man and the one with the bandaged hand – but saw only the guards and knights of Lionys, efficiently calming guests, though there seemed to be some activity beyond the door into the corridor outside.

Arthur stepped to her side, lifting her chin with his fingertips so that she would meet his eyes. "Are you all right?" he said, with a swift searching glance to reassure himself, even as she nodded.

Lancelot moved past him to Gwaine, still on the floor but upright. With a swift jerk of his knife, the knight tore another strip of tablecloth and knelt beside the commoner. Behind Gwen, Lord Lionel was roaring for silence and control.

Arthur looked away from her and said in a clear, awful voice, "Leon?"

The last chair of the table on the left was empty. The second held one of the knights of Camelot – was it Vidor with the darker hair or Caridoc? she couldn't remember – slumped over the table. Leon had his fingers at his comrade's neck – he met Arthur's gaze and shook his head, then turned away to give his attention to Percival, busy on the floor behind the table. The third chair held a lady whose eyes were closed and mouth was open; the middle-aged courtier beside her who was her husband was fanning her; himself pale and blank-eyed with shock. The fifth chair was empty, too.

Leon straightened. "Vidor also, and one of Lionel's. Throats cut."

Arthur's head dropped. Elyan put his hand on the prince's shoulder in silent comfort and sympathy; Gwen hadn't even noticed his approach.

"How in all hells did this happen?" Lord Lionel demanded, arriving in the center of the tables. "Lancelot?"

"This man was Halig," Lancelot answered calmly, winding the strip of tablecloth around Gwaine's leg just below his knee, the material of his trousers reddened from a wound. Lancelot nodded toward the fat man. "The slave-trader that Sir Percival arrested yesterday morning. These his men. They must have escaped –"

"Escaped my a-… my foot," Gwaine said, with a pale grimace as Lancelot knotted the makeshift bandage. "Excuse me. Mary Collins wasn't killed, yesterday. She used another woman as a decoy, and tonight returned to her home to do magic, to bargain with Halig, to unlock his cell in return for him abducting the prince, and put everyone to sleep while he did it."

"And you know this how?" Lionel demanded. Beside Gwen, Arthur was silent but intent upon the commoner.

Lancelot pushed to his feet, and gave Gwaine a hand up. Percival and Leon left the bodies hidden by the other table to join them in the center.

"Merlin told us," Gwaine said simply, and met Arthur's eyes.

"The sleeping enchantment didn't affect you, Arthur," Gwen realized, and the men looked at her. "Was it the amulet Merlin gave you?" Arthur put a hand to his throat in sudden remembrance.

Gwaine cursed and shook his head in mild disgust. "Ten to one he forgot he did that," he said, as if he was talking to himself. "And I _ran_ all the way here."

Arthur looked at her, and cocked his head. "It didn't take you entirely, either," he said. She felt in her pocket for the scroll Merlin had given her earlier. Perhaps he'd done the same thing with that? Or perhaps some residual magic had kept her just barely awake? "What is that?" Arthur said.

"Merlin gave it to me," she said. "For you." He took it and began to unroll it.

"The sleeping enchantment was broken," Lord Lionel said.

Gwaine explained, "Merlin and another sorcerer by the name of Alator went to take care of Mary – they must have been successful. The enchantment would have broken at her death, I understand."

There was a feeling of collective relief, a release of tension, at the suggestion that Mary had been definitively stopped, this time. "So it is over," Lancelot said.

"My lord," Gwaine ventured, "may I go?"

"You're wounded, lad," Gwen's father said, puzzled. "Take a seat; we'll call a healer."

"I'd rather not wait," Gwaine said.

"_Dammit_, Merlin!" Arthur spoke suddenly, then looked up from the scroll with an awful light in his eyes. "What time is it?"

A breath of silence at such an ordinary question that no one immediately had an answer. And the timekeeper's bell sounded in the distance. It seemed to Gwen that everyone was holding their breath. Nine… ten… eleven…

Twelve.

"It's been minutes, only," Arthur said to Gwaine, still with that dreadful calm. "He didn't have time to get back to Alator's chamber, did he?"

Gwaine shook his head; Gwen reached out and grabbed Arthur's hand, it was cool and dry and relaxed, the strip of tablecloth still tucked around it. "Arthur, what?"

The scroll was crumpled in his other fist. "He's written me goodbye," Arthur said. "And Leon, and you. And Gaius, and his mother."

No one moved or spoke. The prince turned back to his host.

"I apologize, Lord Lionel, but I must excuse myself, Sir Leon, and Gwaine, for tonight," he said. "I'm afraid my sorcerer has not overcome the ill effects of his battle with the witch yesterday, and he may have done himself further harm tonight." Gwen had to swallow a painful lump and blink back tears at the tremor in the prince's voice. "We will be here tomorrow for whatever investigation into tonight's events you wish to conduct?"

Lord Lionel made a little bow, a wry smile on his face. "Sire, you need not ask my permission," he said. "Whatever you need, I and my people will supply. Lancelot? Percival?"

"My lord," Lancelot said.

"Elyan can organize things for us here, tonight," Lionel said. "You two accompany Prince Arthur and Sir Leon."

"Yes, my lord."

Arthur squeezed Gwen's hand and gave her a quick look that wasn't a smile, but understanding passed between them before he turned away. Gwaine leaned on one of Percival's shoulders and managed a fairly swift limp.

Gwen watched them go and wished that she could follow. Wished there was something she could do – but she had no sword, no magic. She could do nothing for Arthur, or Merlin. Not tonight. But tomorrow, maybe… and meanwhile, there was plenty that needed doing here. Organizing the servants who were able, to clear the banquet – and the rest of the mess. Reassuring, soothing, attending guests.

"Guinevere, you should return to your rooms," her father said, as a pair of knights slid past them to begin to pick up the green-shirted corpse. "I'll see to it that Enid is sent to you."

"No, Father," she said, respectfully. "Let me help here."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

_Midnight_.

Merlin's body jerked taut, his head back and his arms out, and Freya stopped breathing.

He seemed to have an instinctive sense of the time – had he forgotten? Miscalculated? He shook himself with the uncontrollable motion of a wet dog, then said in a terrible voice, "Your time is up." He leaned forward slightly; if he was speaking Freya didn't hear him. But he dropped to one knee without hesitation, and slammed his open palm down on the packed earth with the _crack!_ of a rock thrown at a stone wall.

The ground shuddered, and Freya crouched slightly at the far corner of the alley. Mary threw wild glances to either side, and overhead, and screamed as the rest of the building crumbled down around her.

But it didn't stop. Merlin neither moved nor raised his head, but the cracking plaster and falling stone didn't bounce and tumble away. It gathered inward against all reason, as the house imploded, drawing even the fire and charred slats of the burning crates, the very dust in the air sucked toward the center of the area, rubble packing itself tightly together, squeezed like a wet clay vessel formed in error on a potter's wheel until there was simply one great lump of material fused in the place where Mary had stood, just inside the damaged building that no longer existed.

The witch's scream hung in the air. The fire extinguished in a gust of smoke, and the night was soundless again. The moon hanging high overhead bathed everything in clean silver light.

Freya could see that Merlin was gasping for breath, though he remained kneeling in place, bracing himself on his one knee and palm. She ventured forward, bent at Alator's side. He was breathing, and let out a soft moan when she touched him. She could see no blood, and determined that the older sorcerer would be fine for a few moments.

She crept closer to Merlin's side. His head was down upon one knee as he crouched, and his breath came in quick sobs. She whispered his name and put her hand upon the curve of his ribs on his right side. He flinched at her touch.

"Freya? Hells, you weren't supposed to –" He sucked in a sudden lungful of air and every muscle went hard and still as a rock. Minutes passed before the curse temporarily receded. "You've got to get out of here," he told her. "Alator won't wake soon, though he will live. I have to call Aithusa – he will see to it that I do not –"

"Shut up, Merlin," she said fiercely, and startled him into raising his head. "You will not give up, do you hear me? Come on." She tugged him to his feet, they staggered like both of them were drunk. "You can do this." She kept hold of him, forcing him back down the alley. "I need you – are you listening to me?"

He looked at her with a blank unresponsiveness like a sleepwalker, and said nothing.

"Come _on_," she said again, letting go of him to push Alator's body into a better position. The bald sorcerer moaned again, and she saw that the light blue tunic he wore was scorched by the left shoulder, thick dark grime obscuring the tattooing on his neck.

Merlin bent silently, obediently, to help Freya drag him up by his arms, to take the older man's weight onto his own back. They stumbled slowly down one alley and then the next, coming out on the main street two buildings south of Freya's house.

A guard she supposed she could ask for help, a trained fighting man, but if Merlin's control slipped, she was afraid the beast would come roaring out, and she'd not ask another citizen to risk that. She cast a desperate look around – but the street was still deserted.

Behind her, Merlin grunted, then let out a whine of pain or protest. She turned to share as much of Alator's weight as she could, still leading the way. Sometimes she and Merlin crashed into each other, sometimes pulled Alator out between them as they lurched apart, but they made it to Shef's door without dropping the older man.

She knocked, and there was no answer. "Shef?" she called.

Standing still, somehow Merlin managed to lose his balance, and the bulk of both men shoved her into the door – through the door, though she caught it to keep from falling as Merlin stumbled forward into the room, banging hard into a long plank table before bringing himself and Alator to a halt.

Their old neighbor was still in his seat by the fire, eyes shut and head resting against the high back; he didn't react at all to their intrusion. The plate she'd given him earlier was still beside him on the hearth.

"Shef?" she said again. "Merlin, the bed is there, can you get Alator –" The young sorcerer shuffled across the room without speaking, and Freya turned her attention back to the old man. She spoke his name again, gently, not wishing to wake him to the fright of strangers – sorcerers – injuries and curses.

His hand was cold. She looked closer – he wasn't breathing. She moved her grip to the wrist – no pulse. But the expression on the still, wrinkled face was serene.

"Oh, Shef," she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. Whether some instinct had told him of Nell's passing, or whether he'd harbored hope to the end, at least the old man never knew the manner of his wife's death. And Freya could comfort herself with the belief that they were together.

She turned to find that Merlin had deposited Alator more or less atop the bed she'd straightened earlier that day. He was seated on the floor by the foot of it, his knees drawn up to his chest, face hidden, both hands fisted so tightly in his hair that his knuckles were white.

"Merlin," she said. "I'm sorry; I need your help again." She went to Nell's cupboard for an extra blanket, and pushed the table closer to Shef's chair.

For a moment he didn't respond. Then his shoulders slumped in something like a sigh, and he dropped his hands to the earth floor to push himself up in one fluid motion. She couldn't see his eyes; he kept his head down, but his jaw was set.

"If you could lay him out on the table," she said, and Merlin bent without question to lift the shell of the old man. She wondered how aware Merlin was of what he was doing, but his touch seemed both gentle and respectful. And she spread the blanket over the body, the old man's face.

Merlin watched blankly, his hands loose at his sides as she did so, then suddenly whirled and strode through the door. She'd wanted to tend the fire, trim the candle – maybe light another one, in case Alator came to. A bit of a shock, she expected, to do so in a strange house with a corpse for company, but Merlin was her concern, now.

She dashed after him just as he lifted his face to the sky and began to release the same sort of awful bellow Alator had interrupted last night – _don't call them, we'll never get you back_... She leaped to smack her hand over his mouth, her other hand around the back of his neck, practically throwing herself into his arms. He met her glare with eyes wide from surprise.

"Don't you dare!" she hissed. "Don't you let it be all for nothing! You're still here – there's still a chance!"

He mumbled something against her palm, and she moved it away from his lips. "I won't make it as far as Alator's," he said. "I have to go somewhere that will hold me if… if I cannot hold myself."

"Come," she said, taking his hand to lead him back down the alley, around the corner, through the door into her home.

It was dark. She closed the door behind them, and went about lighting the candles, and taking down the dry laundry, bundling it onto her bed in her alcove. All the while, he didn't move, simply stood two feet in front of the door with his eyes shut. Swaying slightly.

"It's… sturdy," she said finally into the silence. "My father said, well-made, and he was a builder. If you… is the… the doorway is too small, isn't it, if –"

His muscles went taut and he raised his head once again, the cords in his neck standing out. The absolute silence was uncanny, as his whole body trembled with strain and sweat stood out on his skin. After a moment, he moved his head, shaking it from side to side as if in denial. And the release was so sudden she jumped, as he half-collapsed against the table, panting as if he'd been holding his breath. Which he probably had been.

He glanced under his elbow toward the door and nodded, though his head was hanging low. "Yeah. I'd have a hard time getting out, as the bastet. That's the point – thank you."

"What can I do?" she pleaded with him softly, moving to his side and putting one hand over his. He shivered, but whether that was due to her touch or some effect of the curse, she didn't know. "Tell me what I can do for you? What do you need?"

He shook his head, slowly at first, then violently. "Just – stay close to the door," he told her hoarsely, not looking at her. "You'll have a few seconds' warning – you'll have to get out." He raised his head, then, to meet her eyes, and she understood. She could not remain in the room with him if he changed – he would surely kill her. And that would be the end of his life then, as well… there would be no breaking of the curse, for him, after that.

"Okay," she said, and pulled him around to the bench on the other side of the table, pressing him to sit down. She dipped a cup of water and placed it within reach. He glanced at it and nodded his thanks, and she retreated to the door, sitting on her heels with her back to the wall, hugging her elbows. "Can I do anything else?" she said. "Would it help if I talk…"

A moan ground out between his clenched teeth, and she winced, watching him begin his internal battle again.

How long since midnight? Not half an hour, maybe. How long until sunrise? And this time there were no cuffs to absorb whatever magic burst from him, there was no healing sorcerer there to understand the avenues of the mind and the paths of the curse, to chant and provide a focus for Merlin's concentration, a grip for his sanity. No juniper fire to clear the senses. No control to rely on but his own, no help at all.

He was alone.

It scared her, and she hated it, her ignorance. If maybe she should do something that might make all the difference. Or if in trying, she might make a mistake that would break his tenuous hold. Damned if she did or damned if she didn't, and she didn't know which was true.

He leaned forward, pushing his arms out across the plank table, lowering his head until it rested forehead and nose against the wood.

"I'm still here," she whispered suddenly, her voice feeling thick, as her heart was in her throat. "You're still here."

He made a noise of acknowledgement and maybe of thanks that was almost cheerful.

The rest of his body was unmoving, but his fingers clutched and loosened, scratching lightly against the table. The sound grated monotonously, but maybe it provided the distraction he needed. She watched him closely, but aside from a stiffening in his back, a breath indrawn swiftly, a pause in his rhythmic scratching, time passed without further indication of the curse's attempted manifestation.

Until she noticed his hands.

She'd worried, a bit, that he might drive splinters under his fingernails unwittingly – or maybe that he intended to – but though his fingers were unchanged, long and strong and bony, they ended now in nails that were an inch long and pointed. The color of black moss, a stain that spread beyond the nails to the skin surrounding.

Freya thought, _talons_, and shuddered. She was crouched too low to see, but she would not have been surprised to see that he was leaving furrows to mark the tabletop.

She opened her mouth to remind him, to implore him, to fight, but her mouth and throat were too dry. A nameless fear rose of saying the wrong thing, of drawing his attention away at a critical moment, and she closed her mouth again, not daring even to stand and step to the corner water bucket for her own drink.

Scratch… scratch. Then his fingers paused and his muscles tightened and his head lifted just off the table. For a moment she wondered, worried, and then she heard the voices, too. Men's voices, and raised.  
The door wasn't barred. She pushed herself upright, her legs already feeling stiff, as it slammed open, and the person she'd not dared to hope for strode through.

Arthur Pendragon, the prince of Camelot.

…**..*…..**

LCT: Well, now you see the other character deaths I've warned about. Really, why do we even name these knights? Sigh… Glad you liked last chapter – hope you've liked this one!


	12. A Heart-Won Victory

**Chapter 12: A Heart-Won Victory**

_Freya heard the voices, too. She pushed herself upright, her legs already feeling stiff, as the door slammed open, and the person she'd not dared to hope for strode through._

_ Arthur Pendragon, the prince of Camelot._

Golden hair gleaming in the candlelight, chainmail gleaming over broad shoulders that filled the doorway, the richly embroidered tunic he wore over the armor the color of fresh blood. His blue eyes were hard as they raked over his sorcerer – glanced at her – returned to Merlin. She had to stop herself curtsying for fear her trembling legs would simply drop her ridiculously on the floor. He was, in that moment, every inch a _king_.

Freya was so relieved. So thankful not to be alone, to be solely responsible for such a valuable life.

"Merlin?" Arthur questioned, and she was glad he kept his voice low and even.

There were others behind him, she could hear, but for the moment he blocked any further entry, whether intentionally or not, she was glad for that, too. _She_ didn't dare speak.

Merlin moved only his head, lifting it slowly just enough for them to see his eyes glittering darkly through the tangle of black hair low over his brow. And that was all. But it was _wrong_, and Arthur felt it too, he glanced at her uneasily. She could say nothing, could not shrug her shoulder or make a face to communicate.

Arthur paced sideways into the room, each step slow and balanced, not decreasing the distance between himself and Merlin at the table, but moving out of the doorway. It was hard to tell, but she believed Merlin's eyes followed him.

A second knight in Camelot red came through the door behind him. Sir Leon, she remembered, he'd been at the impromptu picnic behind Alator's house. His fair hair curly, his expression mild, his hazel eyes sharp for every detail of the interior of her home – and Merlin. He glided along behind Arthur; Freya thought he was ready to protect the prince _from_ Merlin, if it came to that.

And the captain of Lord de Gransse's knights, Sir Lancelot. Handsome and gravely quiet, he seemed the sort to be always waiting on an order to obey. Faithful and dutiful and dependable; he nodded courteously to her as he entered her home.

Then her brother, leaning on Percival's shoulder. Percival she was fairly well acquainted with, he'd been friends with Gwaine for years. He nodded to her reassuringly, and Gwaine gave her a tight grin. Some slight injury, then, in winning the victory over the slavers at the palace, but nothing they were worried about. She turned back to Merlin as Gwaine and Percival maneuvered the door shut behind them.

The sorcerer pushed himself slowly back from the table, keeping his chin down as he watched them all, eyeing them with a wild wariness. And very little recognition, she thought, except maybe for Arthur. No one made a move for him, and when his eyes had rested for an instant on each weapon, each tunic-emblem, he turned them back to Arthur, and they flashed with something more frightening than magic.

"Have you brought them to fight for you?" His voice was nearly unrecognizable, a harsh whisper. A taunt. His body was tight, as an eager, feral instinct to fight seemed to war with a more intellectual caution. "You did not bring enough."

"No," Arthur said calmly, taking two steps toward him. Leon slid past him toward the far end of the room, and Lancelot crossed in front of Freya. Merlin watched the two knights flank him with swift, darting glances, then looked again at Arthur. Who added, "I've brought them to fight for _you_."

Merlin's head came up properly at that, his eyes clearing to show a bit of astonishment. Behind and beside her, Percival helped Gwaine to lean against the wall and slide down to sitting on the floor. She joined them, her legs tucked more comfortably sideways. Percival reached to check a blood-speckled bandage around Gwaine's lower leg. She paid scant attention; Gwaine never appreciated her fussing, anyway.

Arthur was close enough to touch the table, opposite Merlin. "You keep fighting, you hear me?" he said softly. Merlin held Arthur's gaze for one instant longer before throwing his head back, his face contorted with the effort of containing the curse.

Lancelot put his hand on his sword-hilt at the suddenness of the movement, and Leon backed a step toward Arthur.

Merlin's lips parted over clenched teeth as a whimper became a snarl and he shook himself without any interruption of the sound that now ripped from his throat in a rising yell of frustration and anger that lifted him right onto his feet. And he lunged forward over the table, spearing Arthur with a fierce glare as he came to the end of his lungs' capacity.

Percival swore in a shocked whisper.

Merlin dragged in a ragged breath and shouted, very nearly right in Arthur's face, "_What the hell do you think I've _been_ doing_?"

Arthur seemed the only one unintimidated – even though she and Gwaine had witnessed Merlin's struggles the previous night. The prince leaned forward himself, bringing his face within inches of Merlin's.

"Good," he said. "That's good. Keep fighting."

Merlin blinked, his lips pressing together, and three of Freya's flower-pots exploded in a shower of dirt and clay shards. Lancelot and Percival jumped; Leon reached gently to take Merlin's sleeve near the elbow, murmuring something to the younger man that distracted him. And when he dropped back down to sitting on the bench, Arthur hooked his boot around the support of the other bench and drew it out so he could sit across from his sorcerer.

Lancelot snagged the cup of water and offered it hesitantly; as Merlin reached to take it the knight flinched at the sight of the sorcerer's hands and darted a glance at Arthur, who didn't react. Merlin hadn't noticed; he took the cup with a look of gratitude and a wan smile, drinking and then resting arms and head on the tabletop again, this time with his face turned toward Freya, though he didn't look at her.

"Was it like this last night?" Percival said in an undertone to Gwaine.

"Midnight to sunrise," Gwaine answered hollowly.

"Sunrise," Percival said. "_Hells_."

Freya's eyes were on Merlin as he closed his; he made one tiny muffled noise and his fingers twitched away from the cup, froze in a hardened clawing motion. The cup of water began to turn, to spin, in a moment so fast that the water was flung right out. And on the hearth a fire roared in an inferno so sudden Lancelot jumped and backed to the wall beside Percival. Another pot just beside him tipped to the floor and crashed, but she wasn't sure the knight hadn't knocked it with his elbow.

It lasted only a moment. Then the fire died into an innocent crackle, and the cup rolled off the tabletop. Merlin drew his arms inward, off the table, huddling in on himself. Freya took a breath. No one spoke for a moment, then Merlin did.

"Tell me," he said. "Arthur, tell me. Tonight… you weren't hurt? No one was hurt?"

Arthur glanced up at Leon, who shook his head in answer to some unspoken question. "I'm fine, Merlin," the prince said. "Your charm, remember? The sleeping enchantment didn't affect me."

Merlin's breath puffed against the tabletop. "I'm glad," he whispered. "I wasn't sure…"

"Halig's men came through one door – and Gwaine came through the other." Arthur's tone was sarcastic and confident; she'd heard Gwaine use a similar tone before, when summarizing success won through a fight. "I could've just stood and watched."

"It wasn't like that," Gwaine protested. "I was lost in that palace, didn't know where I was going, til I saw one of them down a hallway. And after that, Arthur barely needed me."

The prince twisted on the bench and said with a mocking half-smile, "There were six of them, Gwaine, and I accounted for two."

The three knights looked at Gwaine, seated on the floor. Merlin lifted his head also, his blue eyes exhausted but proud. Gwaine gave them all an irreverent grin. "All right, I'll be the hero," he said.

"You're hurt," Merlin observed.

Gwaine rubbed at the edge of the white bandage, rolling it over to reveal the saturation of blood on the underside. "Nah, just a cut," he said.

Merlin whispered, "_Hells_," and banged his head deliberately on the tabletop, gritting his teeth on a groan as the rest of his body tensed again.

Two more flowerpots exploded – but the shards of broken clay, instead of simply clattering to the floor, whirled chaotically through the air – everyone ducked, trying to protect themselves – the pieces froze. There were two within Freya's reach, and they were both _sharp_. And vibrating, as if they wished to keep scything through the air.

Percival was nearly cross-eyed looking at another; Gwaine met her eyes as he glanced up. The other knights also were startled to realize how many pieces, and how close, threatened each. Not deliberately, she thought, the air was full of jagged crockery. Leon reached out to take hold of a piece that was less than a foot from the side of the prince's head.

Then Merlin sighed, slumping, and every piece clattered down – on the floor, on the table, one piece that was higher even bounced and rolled down the chainmail over Arthur's shoulder. Gwaine looked at Freya and mouthed a command, _Out_. She shook her head defiantly, and he glared.

"Merlin," Arthur said, and he might have been trying to wake a very small child, by the sound of his voice. "Do you remember what you promised me, the very first time we met?"

After a moment, Merlin mumbled, "No magic without your permission."

"And I said to you later, use your magic however you choose… remember?" Merlin mumbled something unintelligible, and Arthur said, "Do you think – do you think I might have that promise back from you, for a time?"

Merlin snorted, but otherwise didn't move. "I'm sorry, Arthur," he said in a low voice. "I'm trying not to. Do you think a promise is going to make much difference?"

"Yours do."

Merlin made a sound like a chuckle ending in a whine. "Yes, my lord," he said, and there was no sarcasm in his voice at all. "I promise."

Silence fell. For a few moments. Then the sorcerer grunted, and shivered. The other four men tensed and exchanged glances, but for Arthur, it was as if Merlin was the only other person in the room. He panted three times, then took a long shuddering breath… but that was all. The whole room seemed to sigh in relief.

Arthur brushed Merlin's tangled sweaty hair with his fingertips, his bandaged hand on the tabletop inches from the sorcerer's head.

Merlin rolled his upper body sideways on the table, resting on his head and the back of his shoulder. He reached up to take Arthur's hand in both of his, lightly and gently, twisting his head against it in the same sort of nuzzling motion he'd done to Freya earlier, but more pronounced. Arthur looked uncomfortable, but didn't protest, even when Merlin pulled his hand down by his face.

But then, he put his nose right into the palm of Arthur's hand, against the white wrapping, and inhaled.

With those long dark nails he plucked at the white material, unwinding it away from Arthur's fingers. The prince, as uncertain how to respond as any of them were, simply allowed it. Freya saw blood spots on the bandage as lower layers were revealed.

Merlin made a noise in his throat that was half growl, half purr. Then he flipped himself over, upright, so fast no one else reacted, except Arthur. The prince jerked his hand back from Merlin so hard he overturned the bench he was on and staggered a bit to get his balance. Merlin leaped to the tabletop and crouched there, as intent upon Arthur as any stalking predator. There was no blue in his eyes and when he hissed at the shocked prince… his teeth looked _pointed_.

Gwaine cursed. He and Percival elbowed each other, got in each other's way trying to get up.

Leon and Lancelot both dove for Merlin, capturing an arm, a shoulder, a sleeve. Something tore as they dragged him backward off the table, and he snapped at them unhappily, though without any real threat. Lancelot's elbow caught the water mint, knocking it off the side table; it hit the side of the hearth and cracked apart into a soggy, muddy mess.

"Merlin," Leon said insistently, half-blocking him from Arthur with his own body. He murmured something that the young sorcerer ducked his head to listen to; neither of the knights let go of him.

Freya pushed herself up also. She didn't outrank anybody here, even if she had any suggestions to offer, but she could follow her own common sense. As Lancelot and Leon pinned Merlin to the wall between the side table and Gwaine's cot, and no further changes appeared, she turned to rummage for clean bandaging supplies. Strips of cloth, ointment in a little jar, a cloth for washing, and stepped timidly then to Arthur's side.

His eyes stayed on Merlin. Shock and frustration and… loss.

Percival righted the bench, then reached into a corner for her broom.

She washed the smeared blood from Arthur's palm quickly. "It's only a shallow cut, sire," she told him. The combined smell of the oil and beeswax Finna used with comfrey to make the ointment would help, she hoped, mask whatever scent of blood Merlin had picked up on. She wound a clean bandage around his hand, encircling his thumb to tie it neatly and snugly.

"What do we do?" he said softly, looking down at it. She didn't know if it was a question he meant for her to answer, or not. "I thought… he's said before, blood magic is strongest, but in this case…"

"Better not," she agreed, and he looked up at her. "I think… we have to keep doing what we're doing, the best we can. I think… it's only up to him."

"But he's _losing_!" Arthur whispered fiercely.

They both turned at the same time as Merlin sagged against Leon with rather a pitiful moan, his eyes dropping shut again. Lancelot looked at Arthur as they lowered the slender frame between them to the floor.

"Where is Alator?" Arthur said to her, his eyes on Merlin.

"Next door." She pointed toward her sleeping alcove. "Something happened to him when he and Merlin were fighting Mary; Merlin said he'd be fine, but not wake anytime soon."

"Your neighbors are caring for him?"

"Not exactly. That was Nell and Shef's home. Mary killed Nell, yesterday… two days ago…" She was tired and confused, but he nodded like he knew this part, already, so she finished, "We found Shef before we came here, tonight, I think he died in his sleep."

Arthur nodded, suddenly looking worn.

"Sire," Lancelot said, "I have a bit of experience with battlefield magic, perhaps I can have a look at him?" Arthur nodded once, and Lancelot strode through the door.

"We should get that looked at as well," Percival said to Gwaine as he propped the broom in the corner again, indicating his leg.

Freya wasn't sure if Percival or the others had realized exactly what happened between Merlin and Arthur, or if the big knight was merely concerned for her brother, but she agreed with him. She left Arthur to go to the high bench on the side of the room opposite Merlin, and pushed the pots that remained, the henbane and lavender and calendula, to one end. That cleared a space for Gwaine to rest his leg, one hand on Percival's shoulder for balance.

Perhaps the tear in Gwaine's trousers could be mended; she might even be able to get the blood out of it. But. She glanced over at the prone figure on the floor, resisting his friends' touch. She took Gwaine's knife from his belt and cut away the bloody fabric, bandage and trouser leg both, folding it with the bandage from Arthur's hand so the red stains were inward, and would not smear on the tabletop when she set it down.

To Percival she said, "He's got a clean pair of trousers on the bed, over there." The biggest knight crossed the room to paw through the unfolded laundry on her bed, as she began sponging blood from Gwaine's leg.

It still oozed from the cut below and to the outside of his knee, slicing muscle only, she thought, missing the shin bone and the joint tendons. She thought Finna would probably have put half a dozen stitches in it, but she'd never done that and she knew the longer they took with this, the worse it would be for Merlin. Perhaps they ought to have left the room entirely. Oh, well, too late now. Freya smeared the dark-colored ointment generously over the sides of the cut, ignoring Gwaine's hiss of pain and the blood that began to smear and mix. Her concern was to prevent infection, and to get it covered back up, for Merlin's sake.

"Was it like this, last night?" the prince said suddenly, quietly, a question meant only for the two of them to hear.

"Yes and no, my lord," Freya answered, plastering one end of the clean bandage onto the wound and beginning to wind it around Gwaine's leg.

"What do you mean?"

Gwaine held up both hands and wiggled his fingers. "This."

She elaborated, "We didn't notice any physical changes until the morning, before. And the personality… shifts. Only once, and just at dawn." She could feel Gwaine's eyes on her, but she concentrated on completing her task. "He tried to call the dragon, again," she said softly. Percival joined them, and as she tied the bandage, the men turned to look at Merlin. He was curled on his side, his head buried in his arms, Leon's hand resting on his shoulder. "If I hadn't followed him, he would have." And then – who knew?  
"Arthur," Gwaine said suddenly, very low. "The first night, he meant to leave the city and call a dragon to kill him. And he wrote you that letter to tell you goodbye…"

Letter? Oh. He'd told her, _My mother – for one_. And, _Arthur will make sure it gets to her._ She felt a little dizzy-sick, realizing that Merlin had sat at her table, writing what he thought were his last words to… everyone. And if Gwaine hadn't insisted on going with him…

Arthur nodded, his blue eyes watchful on her brother's face, indicating that Gwaine should continue his thought.

"It makes me wonder," Gwaine said. "If he's only trying to fight the transformation, not the curse. He doesn't want to change, to hurt anybody, but – d'you think he doesn't believe he _can_ break the curse?"

Arthur turned his back, to cross his arms over his chest, to lower his chin and his eyebrows in thoughtful concentration. Gwaine lifted his bandaged leg down, and dropped his trousers to change into the clean pair that Percival brought. As he was fastening his belt, the door opened and Lancelot ducked inside.

"He's still unconscious," he reported Alator's condition to Arthur. "But his breathing is even and his pulse is good, and his eyes react to the light. I think, whatever happened, he'll just have to sleep it off."

On the floor, Merlin uncoiled, pushed himself to his feet. "Take it easy," Arthur said. Leon put a hand under Merlin's elbow to help steady him, and the youngest man gave them all a tired smile.

"I just want to – walk for a bit," he said.

Arthur nodded, not giving permission, but acknowledging Merlin's right to do so. The sorcerer stretched and shuddered, and paced slowly and deliberately to Freya's bed, then turned and came back. His shoulders twitched, and he reached absently to pull off his jacket, folding and rolling it into a tight ball of brown material, his knuckles white where he squeezed it, and his eyes glued to the action. It reminded Freya in a strange way of what had happened to Mary, and maybe Merlin thought the same thing.

He said, "I asked her to tell me who hired them, Arthur. I said I'd spare her life if she told me who wanted you dead."

"Let me guess," Gwaine said ironically, but it was Arthur who finished.

"She wouldn't tell you?"

Merlin shook his head, turning and pacing back toward the alcove. "I didn't want to kill her, but – the longer I waited – and after midnight, I couldn't risk it. The magic, the… the fight."

"It's fine, Merlin," Arthur said, stepping into Merlin's path, putting his hand on his sorcerer's shoulder.

Merlin tucked his hands under his arms and seemed to shrink in on himself, closing his eyes as if from sheer exhaustion. "Please leave, Arthur," he said, and swayed slightly. There was a startled pause, and Freya worried for a minute that Arthur might be offended.

"After all these years," the prince said, and shook Merlin a little by his shoulder, "you still don't get it, do you? I'm the prince; I give the orders."

Freya picked up the dish of bloodied water and gathered the old bandages and the pieces of Gwaine's trousers. As she turned to the door, Merlin made a noise and jerked, like he'd been jabbed hard in the back. He turned his head a few inches, taking a step away from Arthur, who reached for him. Leon took two steps closer, also. And it happened again – Merlin grunted and bit his lips shut – another jerk, another abortive cry, another step back. His jacket fell and he tripped over it, and Leon and Arthur reached to take hold of him.

And he fought them without seeming to realize it, the spasms that shook him making it hard for the two men to hold him.

"Get that stuff out of here, and wash your hands if you're going to come back," Gwaine said to her.

She backed toward the door, watching Merlin twist in his friends' grip – and then suddenly he was thrashing and the screams were tearing from his throat, hard and guttural, each one more nerve-wracking than the last. She turned and fled, slamming the door behind her, flinging the bloody water and the cloths also, down the alley.

Being outside wasn't much better. She could still hear Merlin screaming, hear the other men swearing or giving each other orders in short terse phrases. She stumbled to the rain barrel and dipped a bowlful of fresh water, sinking to her knees to wash the blood from shaking hands, feeling tears run down her face as her sobs struggled to rip her chest open.

She remembered crouching in a very similar manner, in an alley not far from here, in only her underclothes, and a man who was still a stranger offered comfort and understanding.

_Do you believe in destiny?... It's not our strengths that need exercising, but our weaknesses… It is the third I would prevent… He was wounded and chose to die…_

She remembered wondering whether Merlin's unsteadiness was due to the disparate uses of his magic, before she knew of the curse. She thought suddenly, if that might not be causing the tangling of the curse. Alator had said that the curse would affect a person according to existing personality traits, that it would draw on the baser elements of their character, but that the strength of Merlin's magic and the purity of his character were in his favor.

Merlin was gentle and had the manner and instincts of a healer, enough of an inclination to learn to spend two years as an apprentice – at his age and with his power – in a place notorious for its intolerance of sorcery. He'd knitted her bone, apparently, in mere seconds and with no ill effects to either of them, and had been pleased as a child to do so, without any question of payment or favor in return.

He had called the birds and made the shadows play.

Humility. Confidence. Magic. Determination. Loyalty.

They suited equally well a warrior, a man of action, capable of controlled and necessary violence. He'd participated in battle when little more than a child. He'd fought and killed Thomas Collins. He'd fought and killed Mary Collins. And only he knew how many, in between.

It seemed to her that such seeming contradictions in one person might well confuse a curse meant to merge with a person's baser instincts – _magnifying and distorting_, Alator had said. And the uncertainty of how the dragonlord heritage affected him – something that was not a choice for him, something that linked him to a different species altogether, a species that would value different attributes than humans did, perhaps… So what was the key to breaking the curse?

Suddenly the night was silence. Her heart leaped to her throat; she snatched up the bowl and dashed through the door.

They had Merlin on the table, holding him down, gently but firmly. Arthur by his left arm, Leon on the right, Lancelot and Percival by his legs. Gwaine, the injured one, stood nearer the door, his arms crossed, scowling unhappily.

Merlin wasn't struggling, not really. Just moving as he had the previous night, as if it hurt to keep still. Tears ran down his temples, and he was speaking as she came in.

"Arthur," he rasped. "You have to go. I can't… not much longer." He rolled his head on the table, took a deep breath and raised his voice, "_Get out_!"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said tersely, leaning on the younger man to keep him down, as if he could hold the creature inside his friend by brute force. "I'm not going anywhere."

He moaned and panted, "Arthur. I will be _damned_ if it's _you_ I kill." Merlin's words weren't just emphatic rhetoric, but a bone-deep belief, and fear for his soul, if he killed – specifically – Arthur.

"You will be fine." Arthur's voice was calm, though he was breathing hard, too.

A whimper sounded in the back of Merlin's throat. "How do you know?" he whispered piteously.

"Because I believe in you," Arthur told him. It should have been a private moment, maybe, but the room was too small and too still for everyone not to hear everything. "I believe in this." He shook Merlin's forearm, gripped in his own fist. "In _us_."

Merlin shook his head again, rather wildly, his skull thumping against the planks of the table. "You can do it on your own," he said. "You have your queen, you have your knights. You don't need…"

He didn't finish, because Arthur interrupted, in a tone that was halfway between sarcasm and entreaty. "Maybe. But I don't want to do it without you, Merlin. Are you listening to me? You've been through so much, you've given so much – to me, to Camelot. You deserve to see it through to the end." Gwaine took her hand, and she wiped the tears from her face, trying to breathe silently through crying. "You deserve to receive the credit you're due, Merlin, to be acclaimed the most powerful –"

"I never wanted that," Merlin whispered, his eyes on Arthur's.

"I know." There was a catch in Arthur's voice. "But you deserve to take your place in Albion, too. With me. Come on, don't give up. Keep fighting, for me."

Merlin gasped suddenly, his back arching off the table for an awful moment, before slamming back down. The four men hung on grimly as the youngest and lightest of them began to buck wildly, snapping with real intent at both Arthur and Leon – who grabbed his throat to force his head still. Merlin snarled at Leon, a chillingly continuous sound.

Freya moved from Gwaine's side, her feet taking her to the head of the table. Merlin's eyes were dilated and almost completely black, again. He didn't seem to notice her at all.

"We're losing him, Arthur," Leon said, quietly desperate. "Maybe you should –"

"No!" Arthur said, and leaned closer. "Merlin! You've got to listen to me – _keep – fighting –"_

"No," she said clearly, and all four men looked at her. She shook her head, hoping no one thought her disrespectful, hoping no one took offense. Hoping they understood what she herself was only just reasoning out. "I think you're wrong – we've been doing this wrong. I think that fighting is what's causing him to lose, do you see? I think encouraging that side of his nature only makes the curse stronger." She met Arthur's eyes shyly, and was surprised to see hope there.

"What do you suggest?" he said.

She moved around Leon, between him and Percival, and Merlin lunged for her, fingers bent as if to claw at her – or _for_ her… Leon shifted, yanking Merlin's arm up beside his head, leaving her space to get closer.

Freya touched Merlin's cheek, pale and damp with perspiration, and leaned on the table, approaching him slowly to give him time to adjust to her presence, but with confidence. She trusted him. Her fingers moved to his hair, smoothing it around his ear, and as her forehead touched his, his eyes dropped shut.

His chest still heaved with panting breaths, his shirt damp with sweat, but he seemed to yearn toward her, and she realized something else. There hadn't been any magic, after he'd promised Arthur. And earlier, when they'd all seemed strangers under the influence of the curse, still he'd recognized his prince.

She reached out without looking to grasp Arthur's right hand, and moved it to the center of Merlin's chest, just over his heart. Merlin's sigh fluttered across her face, and she whispered, "No more fighting, Merlin. It has not taken you; it will not take you. You belong to us, my love, you belong to Arthur. To magic. To light and life. No more fighting, dear heart, just rest. The curse will lift."

Freya put her lips on his and kissed him as she had before, not hesitantly or desperately, but sure as the moon on the water or the sun rising or the first day of true spring.

"You are no killer," she told him, and he seemed to be listening intently, somehow his spirit focused even as his body relaxed. "You do not dwell in the dark, or alone. The witch is gone; let her curse be gone as well."

_Dragonlord_, she remembered. She knew little of the species, but they seemed in old stories to be grim and violent and untrustworthy, greedy and solitary.

She kissed him softly once more and met Arthur's eyes, wide with surprise at her daring, but without jealousy or blame. "Do you know of the dragons?" she said, and he understood in a moment, leaning on the table as well.

"Remember Aurelian, Merlin," he said in a low voice. "The last dragonlord, who called Aithusa's name at his hatching – the white dragon of Albion. Aurelian, who ended a war and saved his kin. And carried on living in spite of what he'd seen and what he'd done, for hope of the future. For love of his wife and his son… and you. For love of the dragons. You've told me, Merlin, stories of fast flight and freedom, sunlight and wind, you and Aithusa both stretching your wings, growing and learning and full of _life_, Merlin. Think on that."

Merlin stirred and opened his eyes, deep blue. He whispered to her, "Your magic is so _pure_."

And his so unsettled, uneasy, uncontrollable. She said, "You can have it."

He moved against Leon's grip; she looked up at the knight and nodded for him to let go. Merlin's hand trembled as he reached for her, and she caught it to her, his palm over her heart. Almost immediately she could _feel_ his magic, in nearly the same way she could _see_ it. It sought to join them, and she allowed it.

"Arthur," he said huskily, and the prince moved back, releasing his hold as well. Merlin held up his other hand, the palm facing Arthur. "We're holding hands again?"

Arthur seemed to understand, and a half-smile pulled at his mouth, as he matched his hand to the other's, palm to palm, and each finger, though Merlin's nightmare talons jutted past the prince's fingertips. "I won't tell if you won't," he said.

Merlin nodded, and as he closed his eyes, two tears rolled down his temples. "Arthur… it's too dark. Too dark."

A sudden glow sprang up between their hands, a blue-white light that she recognized as his mage-light, with which he'd investigated her home for any threat, before they'd known each other's names. Only – she gasped, realizing that it enveloped the prince's hand… when _no one else_ was supposed to touch a person's mage-light. She felt it draw on her own spark of magic, like an echo or the ripples from a single drop of water.

"Lead me out?" Merlin whispered.

Arthur's voice shook. "Light of fire, and light of sun." He cleared his throat and said, almost pleadingly, "Both become… the chosen one."

"Keep the hope… await the king." The sorcerer gasped for breath like a drowning man. "Once and future… Peace."

The blue light faded. Both Merlin's arms went limp at once, and while Freya kept hold of one – with an effort, as her fatigue crashed down on her almost simultaneously - Arthur had to snatch at the other to keep it from simply thumping onto the table. She noticed that Percival and Lancelot had both moved back, at some point, no longer needed to hold Merlin down, either.

He didn't move. Or open his eyes. But he looked more relaxed than she'd seen him since the curse. His lips curved a little in a smile and she couldn't help bending to kiss him again as she laid his arm down, enjoying the feel of his mouth though he didn't exactly respond.

The room was so quiet she could hear each man breathing. No one moved, everyone watching Merlin. Moments passed, the lull stretched out with no sign of pained spasms or sharp crests of temptation. The knights began to trade glances; Gwaine stepped forward. Arthur withdrew slightly, and Freya noticed that the fingers of Merlin's right hand, which had connected to Arthur's and glowed with mage-light, no longer ended in long discolored nails.

"I think he's sleeping," Leon ventured, in a whisper. More minutes ticked by, no one contradicted him.

"Can we move him to my bed?" Gwaine suggested. "It'll be more comfortable. Even if…" He didn't finish the thought.

Arthur glanced at the cot and nodded; Freya rounded the table to pull off the top blanket in readiness, picking up Merlin's discarded jacket also. Lancelot said, "One, two, three." Merlin was lifted quickly and smoothly, transported to and deposited on the cot. And lay tranquil as they all watched, several more minutes. Freya spread the blanket carefully over him, noting that the scrapes on his shoulder blades had bled through the bandages and his shirt, again. That would have to be tended, later. The jacket she left behind his legs.

"Seems no one wants to say it," Gwaine said. "So I will. You think that's done it?"

"It's not sunrise, yet," Percival said.

"We'll wait for Alator to say for sure," Arthur decided. "See what happens when Merlin wakes. And tonight, maybe…"

"I can go for Finna first thing," Freya offered, and Arthur nodded.

"Shall we take a watch in turns, my lord?" Lancelot proposed. "Five of us is less than an hour each. I will go first."

"No, I'll… sit with him a while," Arthur said. "I'll call you for second."

"I'll take third," Percival said.

"And he can wake me," Gwaine added. "Leon, my friend, you'll have to go last. Freya, go on to bed, we can make ourselves comfortable on the roof." The men turned away to make those arrangements with the ease of fighting men accustomed to night-watches, taking extra bedding and leaving with more than one backward glance. Merlin continued motionless and peaceful.

Leon lingered. "I've never seen anything like that," he said to Arthur, as they both looked down on Merlin.

Arthur said, a bit hoarsely, "I have. At Dinas Emrys. When he… saved my life."

Leon nodded, a look of remembrance on his face, and turned away without another word. Freya's eyes were suddenly heavy, her head achy.

"Freya," Arthur said, just as she stepped toward her alcove. "Thank you." He reached and she gave him her hand and he held it gently between both of his, much as Merlin had done when they'd introduced themselves properly. "We'd have urged him to keep fighting a losing battle, without you. He needed you."

"No, my lord," she corrected. "He needed _you_."

Arthur huffed a wry chuckle. "And I need him. Pendragon and Emrys." Briefly, and surprisingly, he lifted her hand to kiss the back of it. "Thank you," he said again, his blue eyes sincere. "You've been extremely kind to him, generous and helpful and hospitable. When you didn't have to."

"Oh," she said, flustered. "It was… he's very easy to be nice to, and… it was partly my fault. I mean, it was because of me that Thomas – and then Mary – and then the curse…"

He cleared his throat and said, with the first hint of amusement he'd shown all night, "No one's looking, if you'd like to kiss him good night."

She stared at him in absolute astonishment. _This isn't happening, none of this is happening. _

Merlin murmured, without opening his eyes, "Rather her than you, Arthur."

The prince's eyes crinkled at the corners, in spite of the weariness that lined his face, and he made a go-ahead gesture. Uncertainly, she leaned over Merlin, glanced up again at his prince, then balanced on the edge of the cot to drop a quick kiss on the rumpled black hair. Merlin made a sleepy agreeable noise, and Freya retreated to her alcove, shoving the clothing she'd washed earlier that day out of her way.

Just before she drew the curtain all the way shut, she peeked out to see Arthur seat himself on the bench nearest the cot, leaning back on his elbows on the table. He yawned and rolled his head to stretch his neck and shoulders, and finally rested his gaze on Merlin, with a funny mix of affection and awe and exasperation.

She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.

**A/N: Never intended this scene to extend so long… but hopefully no one minded… It's kind of a male (knights/Arthur/Gwaine/Merlin) bonding catalyst… And you're welcome for not breaking it at an earlier, 'cliffier' place!**

Guest reviewer: Thanks for picking up on my little summary of Arthur vs. Lancelot in ch.5! Some lines are more deliberate than others – and that was one of them!

LCT: I know, it's only been a couple of days since the start of the story! That's in-canon for Merlin&Freya, but it makes a big change for Arthur&Gwen… I can only hope by the end of the story the romances are believable! (There's kind of an epiphany-moment for Gwen coming up next chapter...)


	13. A New Day

**Chapter 13: A New Day**

Gwen was up before dawn, dressed in a simple rose-colored day dress, her hair pinned carelessly at the back of her neck. Already tendrils were escaping around her face and neck in the morning breeze on the balcony as she watched Lionys lighten toward dawn.

Already there were people stirring, moving about, preparing for their day. She could not make out any area of unusual activity, and hoped that Arthur's arrival would bring good news, not bad. It had been her first thought that morning, her first request to Enid – has the prince returned. _No, my lady, not yet_.

She glanced over her shoulder at Enid in the chair, calmly working with needle and thread to repair the damage done to Gwen's riding skirt. Had it really been less than three days? Since Enid was gazing over the balcony railing, watching for their expected guest, the prince of Camelot. And Gwen had sat pretending indifference.

Gwen leaned over the railing on her elbows. How had it happened, in three short days with Arthur, in maybe three hours altogether spent in Merlin's presence, that she cared so much?

It wasn't about the threat he might pose to her people, if he succumbed to the curse's transformation. Or about whether or not the witch willing to perform such magic was loose in the city. It wasn't a more political concern over whether a foreign prince might place blame on Lionys if he lost his sorcerer to one of their citizen's violence. Or the recognition of how a neighboring kingdom might become vulnerable at the death of a powerful sorcerer accustomed to protecting it.

Merlin was important. More than that, he was kind and generous and gentle and sweet – her friend already, she'd dare to assume. Such a young man _needed_ to live, free of a curse's strictures and sufferings. He was important to Arthur, too. His magic in service to his prince, but as a friend and companion and confidante. Arthur would be devastated if the curse could not be broken, she knew, and hated the thought of him lonely and grieving.

_The cost of destiny_, he'd said, in reference to the scar on his side. _I told you he saved my life._

Every day would be a burden, a duty, to Arthur, alone. It made her heart ache to think. It made her want to stand at his side, take his hand, put her arms around him and hold him and give him whatever strength and courage she possessed.

Out of the people moving about the wide main street – on errands, or beginning to set up booths, or heading to the gates to leave the city for the forests and fields beyond – she saw a cart. Two-wheeled, if she could judge from that distance, pulled by a single horse, a driver just behind. But what caught her attention was the four men walking at each corner, maybe by design or maybe by casual accident or maybe by some instinct of in-bred training. The early sun glinted from exposed chainmail, the contrasting tunics of Camelot red and deep Lionys green a speck of color. Two of each.

They were coming back. Her heart leaped and she almost turned to sprint from her room, down the stair from the tower, out to the courtyard to meet them.

But – the cart. What did that mean? And only four… and all in armor.

She swallowed, and blinked. No, not til she knew for sure.

Gwen managed to smile at Enid as she passed her maid on the way to the door, gave her questioning look a shake of the head in answer. No, she didn't need Enid to accompany her.

Once out of the room, where she didn't have to worry about alarming the older girl, Gwen lifted her skirt to her knees and ran as she hadn't run since she was a child, racing Elyan down the halls, risking a tumble down smooth limestone staircases. She did pass a handful of servants, but no one called or stopped her. Probably they all knew what was going on anyway, or at least that something was. Probably rumors were flying about Mary, about the slavers and the banquet – the cleaning that had needed doing this morning, and the knights' funerals that would take place that afternoon.

She skidded through the atrium, hearing her name in Elyan's voice but ignoring him, clattering down the front steps breathless. As the two gate guards pushed the doors open to admit the cart and the four knights accompanying it.

"They're back," Elyan said unnecessarily, descending the few front stairs behind her, more slowly.

Her heart pounded and her fingers twisted together. Above the clop of the horse's hooves on the cobblestones and the slow tumble of the wheels, she could hear the shout and clash of the knights beginning their morning training in the east-side courtyard training field.

The knights looked tired. Arthur particularly, at the rear left, walked with his head down. Lancelot, at the front corner ahead of him, met her eyes with a gentle nod and a smile meant to reassure her.

And realization hit her. The difference between the two men. It wasn't about the perfection of looks, nor about the power or prestige or wealth or influence their respective wives might reasonably expect. It wasn't about what they could offer _her_, adoration or protection, a life of ease and plenty.

Lancelot did not need her. Might never need anyone, really. The way she wanted to be needed. He was complete and self-sufficient and controlled and pragmatic.

But Arthur. She had seen him vulnerable. She had recognized a capacity for love, and very little hope for someone to give it to. No mother, and an exacting, demanding, warlord father. There was need there. Though he was able and willing to face enemies alone, as he'd done at the banquet, still he sat on the ground in his oldest clothes, with commoners and people he'd known for days, only, trusting them and caring about them.

Noble and courteous and fair.

Ye gods. Gwen's mouth and throat were dry. It wasn't possible. Not so fast. Not for someone with whom her odds of success were so low.

_Love_?

But then the driver was pulling the horse to a halt and the near wheel was creaking as it rolled backward a few inches, and Arthur raised his head. And she was at his side in an instant, not touching him, only waiting.

"Merlin?" she said.

He tossed his head to indicate the interior of the cart, and she stepped up on a spoke of the wheel – near the hub, so her weight wouldn't cause it to turn – to see inside the cart. The sorcerer was curled on his side atop a thin padding of a single blanket. He looked pale and exhausted, his eyes shut and the rest of him completely unmoving. Except, he was breathing.

"What happened?" she said down to Arthur. "Is he all right? Did Alator break the curse?" She was vaguely aware of Lancelot behind her speaking to Elyan, her brother calling for the help of some guards.

"Alator was injured himself," Arthur said, and Gwen remembered Gwaine had told them Merlin and Alator had gone after Mary, and were presumed successful by the dissolution of the sleeping enchantment on the banquet hall. Arthur offered his hand to assist her stepping down from the cart, as a pair of guardsmen at the rear of the vehicle prepared to transfer Merlin's body to a narrow blanket tied between two poles.

"Mary?" she said. The prince's hand was bandaged; she took it lightly and carefully.

"Dead," Arthur said, shortly and decisively, and if there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice also, who could blame him. "Merlin… entombed her in the wreckage of her own house. Alator was out for a couple of hours, but Merlin – managed to lift the curse, himself."

"Not _by_ himself," Lancelot corrected with gentle respect, joining them as the guards eased the young sorcerer down from the cart, positioning him between the carrying poles. "I've never seen magic like that, before, my lord. Without you –"

"And without Freya," Arthur interjected in a mild protest. Lancelot inclined his head in silent agreement.

"So he'll be all right?" Gwen said again.

Arthur gave her a smile, tired but genuine, as the two guards picked up the poles with Merlin slung between them. "Alator said he could find no trace of the curse. Finna – you didn't meet Finna, did you? she's a healer – said physically he should be fine, he's just exhausted."

Gwen stepped to follow the guards with Merlin at very nearly the same time Arthur did. "There's blood on his shirt," she said.

Arthur made a noise of acknowledgement. "His back is scraped up a bit," he said. Gwen supposed she didn't want to know the details.

"So it's over, then," she sighed. Then realized that she still held the prince's hand. But he didn't seem to mind, so she didn't move away.

Arthur set his jaw deliberately, in a way that bothered her. "Guinevere," he said. "It's not –"

"My lord," Elyan said, meeting them as they came around the horse's head, around Leon giving payment or further orders to the driver. "My father has requested a meeting, at your earliest convenience, though he wanted me to stress that you were to take as much time as necessary to refresh yourself in whatever way was necessary, first."

"A bath, a meal, and a nap?" Arthur said bluntly. Elyan looked taken aback for a moment, but nodded. "I'll meet with him now," the prince said.

"Shall I see to Merlin's comfort?" Gwen said, "or –"

"You may as well come with me," Arthur said, reading her desire.

"I'll go with him, Arthur," Leon offered, and the prince nodded acceptance and thanks, both.

Elyan led Gwen and Arthur to their father's council room, and because Lord Lionel wasn't alone, she let go of the prince's hand. Elyan had his own place at the table - her father at the head and the other half-dozen gentlemen seated already - but he offered it to Arthur, and went to lean against the side of the high back of their father's chair, as he'd often done as a boy. She smiled to herself at the thought that he might lift one leg to perch on the arm of the chair – he'd knock them both over in the attempt, anymore.

"Your highness, surely you were told that we might await your convenience," Lord Lionel said, with a disapproving glance at Elyan.

"Yes, I was," Arthur returned, seating himself. "But if no one is offended, I'd sooner give you the relevant information, before taking any physical comfort."

Lionel let a small smile show. "Forgive me, Arthur," he said. "I sometimes forget that before you were a prince, you were a warlord's son. By all means, business first if you so prefer it."

Gwen went to the window seat, her customary place in this room. Where she could hear clearly all that was said, and was allowed to respectfully interject a question or comment. If it was very important; she knew it was a privilege her father gave her, and she never wanted to abuse it. The only draw-back of the position was that she couldn't clearly see Arthur's face; only his profile as he looked at Lord Lionel.

"We have been informed on the events of the last three days, as my son is aware of them," Lord Lionel began. "We have also heard from Sir Lancelot – though not, of course, since late yesterday afternoon. Before we ask you, my lord, to clarify our understanding, first please accept my personal and sincere regret that yourself and your men should have encountered such danger in our city."

Arthur shook his head. "My presence brought danger to your people, your family," he said. "You have lost two of your citizens and one of your knights and for that I apologize."

"There is no need," Lord Lionel said. "You have lost two of your men and nearly a third…"

"I will accept your apology if you accept mine," Arthur offered frankly, though not without humor.

There was a twinkle in Gwen's father's eye. "Done," he said. "Now, if you would, please give us what information you can on these several crimes committed within our domain?"

Arthur began to speak, not only to the lord at the head of the table, but to include each man present. She watched him with a feeling of reluctant fascination, the only man at the table wearing armor – ceremonial or not. The youngest by two decades or more, yet the highest-ranking, he was respectful and quietly assertive. It occurred to her that he'd given plenty of these kind of reports, before, listening to him describe events – some she knew of and some she'd only guessed at – briefly and dispassionately. He spoke nothing untrue, while understating his own role and largely giving credit to Merlin. Unsuccessful initially at catching the sorcerer who attacked in the street due to the uncovering of the slave-trader's den. Victorious over the sorcerer the following morning, pursuing the unexpected complication of the witch into the city, where he'd suffered ill effects of that altercation, after everyone believed the witch was dead. That he had been responsible for discovering her subterfuge and further endangering himself by sending a companion to the palace, leaving himself exposed to greater harm in facing the witch without adequate help.

She noticed that he recounted the history of Merlin's circumstances in the vaguest of terms. It probably helped that none of these men wanted details about what one sorcerer could do to harm or injure another. And with the curse lifted, it was nothing these men need concern themselves with, after all.

There were questions about the involvement of the two healers, the family that had aided Arthur's sorcerer, the death of the witch. Gwen winced upon hearing Arthur describe the great chunk of melded stone and wood that enclosed the witch's body, which Arthur had evidently seen for himself before returning to the palace; she wondered if Merlin had related the conclusion of that battle to Arthur.

An argument arose over what should be done with that object – to leave it where it was and offer the citizens no comment or explanation, or to move it – and how, and whether it could be done at all, and where to – somewhere else. And the end of the session dissolved into several discussions between the council members over whether rewards were in order for the citizens of Lionys who'd risked themselves to participate in the resistance of the rogue sorcerer and his mother. Someone mentioned the possibility of offering a knighthood to Gwaine, contingent upon his passing the challenges set for other candidates, in spite of his lack of pedigree. Someone mentioned the possibility of offering an official position at the court of Lionys to Merlin Emrys.

Arthur, she noticed, didn't bother speaking on the last subject. Neither did her father, but as she rose – it was midmorning by now, and she expected the meeting was over in its official capacity – Lord Lionel leaned toward Arthur. She heard her father advise, in a low voice, "Don't let anyone take that young man away from you."

Arthur responded, "Nothing can." There was a steely determination beneath the deceptively mild way he spoke that made her wonder what had happened, between yesterday, when Merlin had entrusted his last communication with his prince to her, and this morning, when Arthur had brought him back exhausted but evidently reclaimed. The young sorcerer had not believed he could break the curse, she realized, but somehow it had been done. Between Arthur and Freya, according to Lancelot.

She approached the gap between her father's chair and Arthur's, as the members of the council turned their attention to sitting and arguing, or standing and moving away to argue, leaving her father and brother in conversation with the prince.

"You must have some idea who's behind it?" Lord Lionel said.

"Mary Collins' connection to the priestesses' isle certainly warrants further investigation," Arthur answered. "Whether this confrontation connects to a certain previous attempt last year, is also a question needing an answer."

Lord Lionel's dark eyes were sharp, but not accusing. "Else you can expect further attempts," he suggested gently. "And those closest to you in constant danger." Elyan's eyes moved to Gwen's face, but she didn't meet them.

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," Arthur disagreed, "but it is certainly an issue that takes precedence over all others…"

Lord Lionel turned to Gwen, standing very nearly between their elbows, now. "Perhaps, my dear, you should see to young Master Emrys," he said. The prince didn't look up at her. "I will keep Arthur another few moments, and then I am sure he would appreciate a bath and a meal in his room?"

"Yes, father," Gwen replied, dipping her head and her skirt respectfully. Not because her father didn't trust their staff to provide more than adequately for their guests, but because it was an indication of the high importance of said guests, to have the lady of the house inquire personally after details of personal comfort.

At the door she glanced back to see that Elyan had taken the vacated seat across from Arthur, and all three were intent upon their topic – probably of the identity of the one responsible for hiring the assassin, she assumed.

She met a manservant in the hallway between the prince's guestroom and the hitherto empty one that they had saved for Merlin's use. She greeted him, and gestured to the door of the room he'd clearly just left. "How is he doing?"

"Master Emrys is feeling well," the servant replied politely, only slowing and not stopping his steps.

Gwen deliberately sidestepped so the man would be forced to stop, and gave him a knowing smile. The de Gransses had guests in the palace infrequently, but she knew that visitors could have a wide range of faults and quirks and eccentricities the servants were expected to handle with finesse, and mostly she respected the privacy of their position. But this was Arthur's Merlin.

"How is he _really_," she said.

The servant returned her smile involuntarily, and lowered his voice. "Master Emrys is highly appreciative of everything we've done for him and highly resistant to having anything more done."

Her smiled widened. "How long has he been awake?"

"A quarter of an hour, my lady."

"And where is Sir Leon, do you know?"

"Sir Leon is with the funeral detail, seeing to arrangements for the ceremony this afternoon."

She sighed and moved from the servant's way, feeling her smile fade. "My father wanted to make sure the prince could expect a bath and a meal, upon his return to his room?" she told the man, who gave her a little bow of acknowledgement. "Thank you." He continued on his way, and she turned to the door of the guest room.

Gwen rapped her knuckles softly, and received an indistinct but cheery reply. Figuring it for the come-in sort – and hoping she didn't find him half-naked and covered in scars – she pushed the door open. All the way, and leaving it so, for propriety's sake.

He was perched on the edge of a chair, leaning forward over a meal tray laid out on the rectangular four-person table that could double as a desk, according to the guest's needs, stuffing bread in his mouth. He choked something that might have been "my lady" and knocked the chair over, trying to get to his feet, a self-deprecating twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, please don't," she said, crossing the room quickly, motioning him back to his seat. "I think we're all a little tired for standing on ceremony, don't you?"

He swallowed, and smiled. "You're too kind," he said. "You look fresh as a daisy, and I'm death warmed over."

She gave him a critical look as she reached him. His hair was damp and tousled, washed but not combed, she thought, from the bath that was probably standing unemptied behind the screen in the corner. His white shirt was plain but fine, unlaced at the neck and belted at his hips over dark trousers of the same cut. The sleeves were pushed up carelessly to show the tattoos of his druidic upbringing, fantastic black-green swirls and points and knots against the pale skin of his forearms. He could use some more color in his cheeks, she decided, and less under his eyes. But the shadows in them were gone, the blue deep and clear.

"You look okay to me," she said, and with the echo of _a winged cat… a killer_ in the back of her mind, it felt natural to slip her arms around his ribs and give him a gentle hug. "You're still here – that's what matters, right?"

He hesitated awkwardly for a moment, then squeezed her back in the boyishly exuberant way Elyan did, when he got carried away and forgot decorum. As he'd hugged her when they'd returned home from the disastrous hunting trip.

"Here," she continued, releasing him. "Don't let me interrupt you – you must be starving."

He turned and righted the chair with an easy movement, and she drew another one close, curling one leg casually beneath her. He returned to his meal – fresh crusty loaves of bread that he tore apart with his slender strong fingers, and dipped into broth – chicken, by the smell, she guessed. "I'm sorry," he said to her, between bites.

She gave him a confused frown. "For what?"

"Your banquet was interrupted," Merlin said. "I've been to a couple like that – unpleasant during, and bothersome to clean up afterward. Guests and mess, both."

"Unpleasant." She huffed. "You'll have to tell me your stories sometime, and we'll compare. I was _terrified_."

"You… were…" His eyes were on his bowl, the chunk of bread he dunked, then dunked again. "I thought… the sleeping spell…" He lifted his gaze to hers, troubled. "You weren't asleep?"

"Well, not really," she answered. "It didn't affect Arthur at all, I think – your charm." He nodded. "But I think – maybe the letter you gave me? I had it with me, and I – I couldn't move, but I could see what was happening, hear what they were saying."

He abandoned the bread in the bowl, slid his elbow on the table, put his forehead in his hand. "I'm so sorry," he told her. "I didn't mean for that to happen. My magic was… unreliable, yesterday. That… probably made it a hundred times worse, for you. Than if you just fell asleep, and woke when it was over."

Gwen bit her lip. She shouldn't have said anything about the letter. She shouldn't have said, _terrified_. She should have figured he'd blame himself. "Then it probably wasn't you, or the letter," she said, matter-of-factly. "Mary Collins told Halig to make sure to kill me; maybe she wanted to make it worse for Arthur. I think he knew I was awake enough."

He looked at her without lifting his head from his hand, then reached out his other, across the table to her, and she took it. "Did you read the letter?" he asked.

"No, I only gave it to Arthur. He read it, said you had… written goodbye."

His smile was sweet and a little sheepish. "No wonder he came storming in with a troop of knights," he quipped.

She added, "He said you wrote to him and Leon, to your mother and Gaius. And… to me."

He nodded, not looking away, and she felt self-conscious again, wondering for the first time how Merlin felt about Arthur taking a wife. _I'm glad he has you_, he'd said. And maybe he'd thought he'd been saying goodbye as well. She decided she didn't want to know what he'd written.

"This thing we have," Merlin said. "My life, and Arthur's life. Destiny, and prophecy." He paused, and she nodded to show she understood – enough, anyway. "I think there's more to it than just the two of us. I think that others can get – drawn in, also." He sounded like he wasn't sure whether to be glad of or sorry for that.

She let go of his hand and sat back. Not because she disagreed with or resented his words, but because she'd felt that. A bit, and at different times.

He gave her a melancholy smile. "The great dragon once wished me joy in my destiny," he told her. "And someone recently reminded me that even though destiny may be laid out, still the choices are ours to make."

"Merlin, how old are you?" she said, and his eyebrows shot up. She went on lightly, "Because you sound a little like my father."

"Then your father must be a very wise man." His eyes twinkled impishly at her, and he realized, "I haven't actually met him yet. But, Gwen… I just want to say, the choice is yours, not anyone else's. And I truly wish you happiness, in whatever it is."

She wondered if there was something more he wasn't telling her. Something Arthur had said, something that the sorcerer knew because of his magic. Because the choice was Arthur's, as it stood now. She'd told her father already, what her response would be if Arthur offered a proposal. That hadn't changed. "Thank you," she said softly.

Merlin yawned, the uncontrollable, jaw-cracking kind of yawn that could leave a person feeling bleary-eyed and twice as tired as before. "Sorry," he sighed, once he could manage it.

"Don't be – you've all day to sleep," she said. "Except – they've told you about this afternoon, haven't they?"

He looked down at his hands, and nodded, his shoulders falling fractionally. "Vidor, and Caridoc," he said softly. "What was the name of your father's knight?"

"Sir Syril," she told him, and he nodded.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. She got the feeling this might be a habit for him, apologizing when it wasn't his fault, or simply expressing sympathy in a personal way. "I suppose I ought really to have thrown the fireball at Mary Collins, the other day. But the… alleys of your city." He glanced up as if making sure she understood he was simply explaining, not placing blame. "The one I came down, I could only see Freya. The way she was standing, and the look on her face, and what you'd said about Mary's threat… I could only think to get her out of the way. It happened so fast, and I had to do the magic blind, more or less…"

"If you had to do it again?" Gwen said, genuinely curious.

He pushed back in his chair, extending his lanky legs and letting his head rest against the back, so that his gaze was fixed on the ceiling. "Knowing that Mary killed Nell?" he said softly. "And freed Halig to kill Vidor and Caridoc and Syril and threaten Arthur and you? Would I have killed her then? Maybe. But to have that chance, the time to decide and then to accomplish it… I would have had to let the curse strike Freya. And _that_ – never."

"You don't think it might have been easier for Alator – or you – to lift the curse from her?" Gwen questioned.

He didn't move or look at her, but his lips twitched wryly. "I'm sure it would have," he said. "In retrospect. But there is no cure for it, no set solution. It's a witch's curse, never meant to be placed on a man."

"Why would that matter?" she asked.

"Because," he said, with humor, "Men are, by nature, more combative. More likely to kill… I doubt Freya's ever done violence on anyone; I have had to."

"She's not a dragonlord," Gwen added, and his expression turned thoughtful. "Can I ask you something?" she ventured. He hummed in ready agreement, and dropped his gaze to her. She felt heat rise in her face and hoped a blush wouldn't show. "With Arthur scheduled to marry this autumn… and Sir Leon engaged also –" his grin widened abruptly in sincerest pleasure with the reminder of his friend's unexpected romance – "does that make you think, sometimes, what about you?"

He shrugged. "It's not something I dare hope for," he told her, with a sweet honesty that touched her heart, "for myself."

"Whyever not?" she said softly, thinking of the look he'd greeted Freya with, at the picnic.

He looked down, at his hands crossed over his stomach. "I have an unusual background. An unusual situation, currently. Unusual prospects for the future, as likely as not. My responsibility is to Arthur, first and always."

"That doesn't mean you can't take a little joy for yourself in your destiny," she hinted gently. "I mean to say, when Arthur marries, there will be times…"

"When he wants me nowhere near him?" Merlin finished, with funny impudence. "Trust me, those times happen just about daily, as it is. Oh, I know what you mean. And I have my work with Gaius to keep me busy."

"Hm," Gwen said, studying him. His demeanor was so open, conversation with him so effortless, she figured he found it easy to make friends. But was it enough? And what about Freya's feelings? She said lightly, "I should think any girl would count herself lucky to be blessed with your affections."

He snorted, taking her words as pure jest. "Unlucky, rather," he said cynically.

"Merlin Emrys," she said, letting her voice rise in a scolding older-sisterly kind of way. "I can't believe you'd say such a thing."

He grinned unrepentantly, mimicking her tone, "And I can't believe you'd have me run from one kind of enchantment right into another."

She couldn't help giggling, but almost choked on it when a voice said from the door, "What's this about another enchantment?"

"Arthur," Merlin said, jerking upright in surprise and something very near delight.

Gwen turned in her seat, smiling involuntarily at the look on the prince's face. Relief, and genuine happiness – but overlaid with a mocking exasperation meant to hide the deeper feeling. The half-smile pulled sideways into almost a grimace, but the blue eyes sparkling with life. It reminded her of the way he'd greeted Merlin in the forest; he was far more relaxed than she'd seen him at any other time during his visit.

It occurred to her that so far, she'd seen Arthur's campaign self. And that she was going to get to see who he was at home, now.

"I was getting around to asking him about last night," she said to Arthur as he sauntered across the room.

The prince straddled one of the other chairs, next to her and across from Merlin. "Really," he said, faintly sarcastic. "Well, Merlin, let's hear it. Your side of the story. What do you actually remember?" It seemed to Gwen that the question carried something of intensity, as though the answer was significant to the prince, but he didn't want to betray that fact or the reason for it, to his friend.

Merlin gave each of them a shy glance. "A lot of darkness," he said. "Mostly – feeling lost. Or stuck. Remember your week of high noon?" he said to Arthur. Evidently the question made sense to the prince; he nodded. "It was like that, only without the light. Like midnight. Bits and pieces, otherwise."

"Just out of curiosity," Arthur remarked, "what bits?"

"At the end, I could hear your voice, and Freya's. I could feel…" Merlin's eyes were directed between them, and unfocused as he concentrated. "We talked about Mary – that she wouldn't tell me who wanted you dead." Arthur's nod didn't so much confirm Merlin's memories as encourage him to continue. "I promised you, no magic." He gave the prince an uncertain look.

"You kept it," Arthur said. "You can have it back, too."

Merlin huffed in wry amusement. "I remember asking if you were all right," he continued. "Gwaine was hurt – a cut, he said…" His brows drew together briefly, and he gave his head a little shake. "I told you to leave, and you said –"

Arthur reached at that moment for an untouched piece of the bread on Merlin's tray, and the sorcerer reacted with an uncanny speed that startled Gwen, but not Arthur, bolting up from his chair and leaning over the table to catch the prince's wrist. For a moment he only stared down at his friend's hand, Arthur's eyes calmly watchful on his face, then he turned it over. Gwen remembered Arthur absently winding the strip of tablecloth used to tie his hands together about his palm; she leaned forward, but the prince's hand looked fine to her. Unmarked. She wondered what the sorcerer was thinking – or remembering.

"I said what, Merlin," Arthur said evenly. "We're holding hands, again?" Merlin stared at the prince's palm another moment, then released him, sinking back into his seat with a troubled confusion – maybe even nausea – on his face. "Perhaps you don't remember as well as you thought," the prince added.

"Arthur," Merlin said, as if it was suddenly difficult to speak, "I'm so –"

The prince pointed his finger peremptorily. "If you apologize to me, Merlin, I will take you to the training field and make you stand for a target while I practice throwing knives, for the rest of the morning."

Even as Gwen was trying to decide if he was serious, if this was something that had been done before – trying to adjust to the odd idea of a prince threatening his sorcerer as if Merlin could not easily escape any punishment Arthur could devise – Merlin himself looked astonished and amused and relieved all at once.

"Not that you need the practice," Gwen intervened. They looked at her with nearly identical expressions of incomprehension. "Last night," she explained. "You threw that knife across the room, didn't you? He was right behind me –" She suppressed a shiver at the memory of the slaver being close enough to touch her – "and your hands were tied together, but…"

Merlin quirked an eyebrow at Arthur, proud and disrespectful at once. "Well done, my lord," he said. "With both hands tied together. You've never practiced that way, before."

"If I ever do," Arthur threatened, "I will use you for the target." Over Merlin's exaggerated spluttering in protest, he added, "But we won't have time for that for a while. I came to see if you'll be in any condition to leave at first light."

All trace of humor disappeared from the young sorcerer. The friendly rivalry of teasing was gone, he was once again every inch Arthur's man. And she was distracted from the impression of disappointment by the question that Merlin didn't seem to need to ask.

"Where are you going?" she said.

Arthur answered, gravely apologetic, "Back to Camelot."

**A/N: This story has always been intended to come in two parts – the trip to Lionys, and the return to Camelot. And we're coming to the natural break between those two sequences. This week I'm meant to leave home for a month b/c of military training scheduling. But I also have a family member who is in hospice and not expected to live much longer. So I'm going day to day, basically, not knowing what to expect from the next month…. Which means this may be the last chapter for a while (or maybe I'll be able to slip in one more), so I won't mark it complete. But I will finish it, I promise.**

LCT: Yay, Merlin's back! And everyone's happy. (It's like that old saying, When Momma ain't happy… only with Merlin: When Merlin ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.) *wink* And here's a chapter of Gwen for you!

Everthought: You know, I never even considered that impression of Gwaine's death… it was a difficult scene to write (from Gwen's pov, even though she's not really a participant). I'm glad you liked that last scene, too. I told another reviewer that Merlin took me by surprise, there (doesn't happen often, but it does happen). _I_ thought he was asleep! One more kiss… btw, hopefully this is a good basis for Arthur's full support of Merlin&Freya (because another reviewer wondered about Arthur's reaction to Merlin in a relationship) although that will continue to develop, too… And thanks for the compliments!

And Guest reviewer: I believe, if Arthur gets to have Guinevere and Merlin as the two halves of his heart, then Merlin ought to get to share his with Freya! *nods decisively* It was something I played with a little, the idea that Merlin may know or guess or feel more about Arthur&Gwen than he's letting on (I think that's true to canon, too, at least post-season 1). And I hope this chapter, and the next one a little more, explains what happened to the plan for seven more visits satisfactorily (even if I set it up like "The Bachelor" I didn't want it to get to be like that). Glad you're liking the future reincarnation trilogy – and I highly recommend _Vortigern's Tower_ (I love young!Arthur&Merlin) even if that's blowing my own horn a bit. Even _The More Things Change _might read okay to an Arwen fan, if you know this is the endgame… There are bits I've referenced and reincorporated from both of those stories into this one, which will probably make more sense if you do read the first two…


	14. Conversations and Realizations

**Chapter 14: Conversations and Realizations**

_ "Where are you going?"… "Back to Camelot."_

For a moment it didn't sink in. The prince continued, speaking to Merlin of practical matters, preparations. Her father's offer of an escort of knights to replace the fallen two. Lancelot and Percival the volunteers. The realization of their – of _his_ – imminent departure trickled all the while through her consciousness like melting snow. Cold and unstoppable.

She felt Merlin's eyes on her, and knew the look of compassion he would wear if she met that gaze. Arthur seemed not to notice.

Elyan would travel with them also, it seemed, part of the escort, but also as an emissary of sorts to Uther Pendragon. Not because the king of Camelot would disbelieve his son, Gwen recognized, even in her quiet place of shock and denial, but because Elyan would personify Lord de Gransse's apologies, the sincerity of his wish to make amends and retain goodwill.

_An issue_, Arthur was saying, repeating his earlier statement in the council room, _that takes precedence over all others_. "And until we discover who is behind the contract, it would be inexcusably foolish of me to continue."

"Please excuse me," she said, pushing herself up from her chair. In a moment both young men were on their feet as was proper. "I'm sure you'll be very busy. You'll want to rest." She knew her words were contradictory, but none others seemed readily available. She turned to the door, hurrying, walking as fast as she could. She heard Merlin say something, and Arthur responded, and then she was outside the room.

Two steps down the hallway she realized she'd turned the wrong direction, and spun to correct herself. Arthur was in the doorway as she passed, but it wasn't difficult to pretend she hadn't seen him, to twitch her arm out of his reach.

"Guinevere?" he said.

"Mm hm?" She kept walking.

"Are you all right?" He was following her, even though his room was the other direction.

"Yes, thank you, it was just – a bit sudden," she said.

"Are you angry?" He sounded confused.

"No, of course it makes sense that you need to return home. Your father should hear about this from you – he'd probably want to see for himself that you're safe, and you need to discuss and make decisions, and of course you need to have your own men around you for protection, whatever you decide…" It was logical, of course, and she didn't resent the changing of his plans – or the way she found out, really, though he could have taken more time and trouble with his delivery of the news, but he was tired, he'd been through a lot and probably without much sleep and probably he was still worried about someone wanting him dead.

She would miss him. And that bothered her. She was disappointed to the point of having to blink rapidly several times to keep her composure at the thought of cutting a two-week visit down to three and a half days. That it was over, already.

"I don't suppose you know how long it'll take you to find who's responsible," she said. The stairway to the upper level where her bedroom was came into sight; she didn't glance back at him or slow to allow him to catch up. "But do you think… you'll continue with your visit as planned, once you do?" Not over, just – delayed? Perhaps he would return?

"No, probably not," he said.

That brought her up short, and she turned on the bottom step to face him. "Why not?" she said evenly.

"Because it's unnecessary. In light of recent events."

"I see," she said. Unnecessary. She remembered him saying, _my father's idea... carrying out his order._ Maybe he was pleased to have an excuse to return to Camelot, rather than continue. Maybe three days was enough for him to make up his mind about the first candidate, or maybe the visit to their town had soured him on the whole idea. She wondered whether it was a low opinion of Lionys' citizens or security or resources… or she herself, that was the deciding factor. "Were you going to tell me yourself…" Her breath caught.

He did look tired, and confused, his golden hair rumpled as if he'd dragged his fingers through it unconsciously. And his eyes were the blue of innocence and his mouth ignited memories, and when he lifted his hands to his hips, his shoulders looked even broader in the chainmail – the red embroidered tunic so royal, the golden dragon mocking her with what she could not have. Not good enough. Aside from the impression that Lionys itself had made on the prince, perhaps he found Gwen herself lacking. In manners or intelligence or courage or –

"Or were you just going to write me a letter?" she finished, spinning back around to take the steps two at a time, though it wasn't ladylike. Who cared what he thought anymore, anyway.

"Guinevere," he called after her, and she ignored him. Then he repeated her name more commandingly, stressing the last syllable. "Guine_vere_."

And she halted in spite of herself, her feet on separate stairs. Perhaps he had used his princely tone because he thought she would have to obey if he pulled rank, but she stopped because he held another sort of power over her altogether. Though she hoped he didn't realize it, and would die before admitting it, anymore.

She heard his footsteps on the stairs behind her. "I told your father I would send a message when the threat was taken care of," he said, stopping just below her and to her left.

"That's very thoughtful of you." She didn't look at him.

"But I did plan on… well, I thought you would probably appreciate… if I came here myself, then," he said. "After that."

She let out a rather bitter chuckle. "To let me know that you've decided?" she said. "I think, on the whole, I'd prefer that you simply let my father know what your plans are." Hard enough to reconcile herself to the idea that Arthur had rejected her, without having to see him again, hear him talk of the girl he'd made his proposal to… Only, she wondered if he would be going personally to speak to the others on his list?

"Are you sure?" he said uncertainly. "That seems – quite cold, and businesslike."

She laughed at him. And whisked away a tear that escaped. "_That_ seems quite cold and businesslike?"

He joined her on her stair, stepping closer to look in her face and in her eyes. "Guinevere, what is it you think I should put in writing instead of speaking to you about in person?"

"Whoever you choose," she said. She knew she sounded sarcastic, but didn't care. "Put everyone else's name in your helmet and have Merlin pick."

"The reason," he said deliberately, looking down to take her hand in his. There was an expression around his mouth that she recognized already – he was trying not to smile, "I won't be continuing on visiting the other girls, is because I don't think it would be fair to them. When I've already made my decision."

"What do you mean?" she said, trying to take her hand away. He wouldn't let her.

"Your father said you told him, if I made you a proposal of marriage, you would accept," he said. She blushed, and was glad he was looking at her hand. "You haven't – changed your mind?" He lifted his eyes to her then, and her own self-consciousness or disappointment or misunderstanding didn't matter. She saw right past the tough warrior and the capable prince to the vulnerable heart. _He wants so badly to be in love… doesn't trust himself to recognize it… _

"Oh, for goodness sake," she said, showing exasperation rather than first wave of overwhelming relief that flooded her heart. She would acknowledge neither giddiness nor weakness in her knees. "That is what I get for confiding feelings to a _man_. Of course he told you I said that."

"You haven't changed your mind?" he asked again.

She put her free hand on her hip in a fist and cocked her head at him. Men were _idiots_, sometimes.

A smile pulled at his lips. "Your father advised me to wait with an official offer, until after this assassination thing is taken care of," he told her. "As if I didn't have enough incentive, before."

Gwen rather agreed. It was a very quick time to have made up his mind – though she was dizzy with the reversal of her assumptions – she didn't want him to second-guess himself with more time to think it over, and then end up feeling stuck with her. She didn't think she could handle a second reversal of expectations. Although… two weeks was what she had been promised.

She reached out to fix a tiny wrinkle in the collar of the protective jacket he wore beneath the chainmail, and left her hand resting on his shoulder. "Do you think you'll be in very much danger, in Camelot?" she said.

"Not at all," he said reassuringly. "Now that we're alerted to the threat. Precautions can be put in place, the citadel should be perfectly safe. And –" a genuine smile, this time – "I've got Merlin, haven't I?"

She swung his hand, then freed her fingers to settle on his other shoulder. She allowed both hands to creep around the back of his neck where his hair might soon be in need of trimming, and linked her fingers. "Are you worried about the trip back?"

He scoffed. "With me and Merlin and Leon – and Lancelot and Percival and your brother? Couldn't be safer. In fact, the idea's already crossed my mind of hiring Gwaine to come along as an extra sword, if his leg won't hinder him. So you see – nothing to worry about."

"Good." She smiled, slowly leaning against him, feeling his hands warm on her waist through the fabric of her dress. "Then I want to come with you."

His smile dropped. "No," he said.

Hers widened. "You just said how perfectly safe it'll be," she reminded him. "And I think I'm entitled to visit your home also, before an official offer?"

"No," he repeated.

She tilted her head, studying his face. "Oh – you think I'm one of those girls who has to bring a maid and a hairdresser and a seamstress and a cook and two carriages and five tents along?" He tried not to smile, and almost managed. She herself was elated at the thought that Arthur wanted a betrothal with her, and she could see that the idea of remaining together a while longer was appealing to him as well. "You will see, I think, very little difference in my traveling requirements and my brother's."

"One very large difference," Arthur said, sliding his hands farther around her and tightening his arms. It felt incredible. "Your father has already accepted the idea of Elyan going to Camelot with us. He's never going to let you go."

She surprised him with a soft light kiss on his lips, so quick he didn't have a chance to respond. "We'll see," she told him, pushing away to keep skipping up the stairs.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was a gorgeous spring afternoon. Freya sat on the front parapet of the roof overlooking the main street of Lionys, facing south toward the palace rather than toward the city gates, today. She marveled at the way people went about their lives, business as usual. Oblivious, as though nothing had changed. And for them, nothing had.

For her… She sighed, remembering the spring-feeling of loving her home a little more, and at the same time wanting to run away to new experiences. Now she didn't know what to feel.

She found the large room of her home lacking. Unsatisfying. Not cozy or restful – but at the same time, she wanted to close the door and never leave again. Forget about everything outside. The roof was better. It was familiar, and though her little garden was sparse, still, there was potential for growth, and the freedom of the open sky above.

Freya had met new people - the de Gransses, the prince of Camelot, knights.

And Merlin.

She'd had new experiences, too. Caged by slavers, cornered by a witch, present twice for a torturous curse-breaking, for a picnic with – as Gwaine had said – royalty, nobility, and magic.

And magic. She'd never done that before, either, participated in tandem with a sorcerer for any kind of spellwork. Much less with one who was cursed, who was doing magic on himself, magic that was wholly instinctive and unstructured – and successful.

Kissed by that sorcerer, also, that was new, an honest part of her heart reminded her. But that, she refused to think about.

It was over, now. The Collinses dead, and Merlin freed. She'd spent half the morning cleaning all evidence of the chaotic curse-lifting of the previous night from her home. Now the only proof that any of it had been real was Merlin's trousers and red shirt, folded neatly on the table.

Gwaine had offered to bring them to the palace. After they'd returned from the quiet graveyard outside the city where they and a few of the neighbors had buried Shefydd, erecting a double-marker for him and Nell. And before he went to the palace for yet another memorial ceremony, for the three knights who'd been killed at the banquet.

No, she'd said. Giving as her excuse the inappropriateness of delivering clean laundry at such a observance.

She drew in a breath, lifting her eyes to the towers of the palace. A whirlwind three days. About ten more before the party from Camelot would depart. Or perhaps longer, if a messenger was sent back to Camelot to request replacements for Arthur's two murdered companions. She wondered…

He'd be busy, of course. Probably too busy. But he might think of her – of _them_, she corrected swiftly. Her and Gwaine, both. Or maybe… with the prince spending time courting, safe behind the palace walls, Merlin might find himself with his time on his hands. And maybe…

For no earthly reason, she turned her head to look to the west, across the combined rooftops toward the narrow outside stair that rose along the back of the house. A moment later, his head came into view as he ascended, turning to search – and a wide grin breaking out as he saw her.

Her heart flipped in her chest, and it was not unpleasant. Only – she wished it hadn't. But that was a worry for another day. Eleven days from now.

She rose and crossed the roof, having to hold herself to a decorous pace, as he paused on the stair and leaned on his elbows on the parapet. "Hi," she said, when she was closer, letting her own smile free. "I didn't know if we were going to see you today." _Or at all_, a little voice reminded her. She ignored it. "You look –"

So much better. Balanced, restored, cleansed – and that was just his spirit. He was not wearing the comfortably worn brown jacket, she noticed, but a much finer coat of deep blue velvet. It brought out the blue in his eyes, and made him look younger – and yet older, too. It made him _look_ the skilled sorcerer of reputation.

_Not for you_, she reminded herself. But why not – a friendship? For a while?

"More myself, yes?" He gave her a mischievous look, reaching to the back of his neck significantly, then pulling on each sleeve in turn to give her a glimpse of the green-black symbols, once again ink only. "But you saw that this morning, didn't you?"

She murmured confirmation. The relief that filled the room when Finna had re-dressed the scrapes on his shoulder-blades, showing a ridge of knobby spine-bones rather than dark fur-hair down his back. Not a single scale glittered on his arms. And Alator's final pronunciation, no trace of a curse – mind, soul, spirit, heart all free.

"I didn't know if you'd remember," she said. "You were a little –"

"Incoherent?" he joked. "Can I come up?"

"Of course," she said, and he did, sauntering to the table where the henbane and lavender and calendula had joined the rest.

There was an open space on the bench; he dropped onto it, and shrugged out of the velvet jacket, laying it over the table behind him and leaving himself in plain white shirtsleeves. He stretched his lanky legs out and leaned back on the table, turning his face up to the sun with a whimsical look on his face. He took a deep breath, let it out, and said, "There. Now I _feel_ like myself again, too."

She moved to the water bucket she'd set just underneath the corner of the table when she'd first come up to the roof, and took the dipper to measure the water each plant needed. "I didn't see you coming," she said, gesturing to her seat that overlooked the street. Then immediately bit her lip – now he would think she'd been watching and waiting like some lovesick maiden in a ballad. Which she hadn't been.

"I came a different way," he answered; it seemed he had read nothing into her comment and she relaxed a bit. But then he opened his eyes to smile at her, and she glimpsed a shadowy sorrow. "I came past the Collins… house."

"Oh," she said, cringing at the thought of what he'd seen – the wreckage all molded impossibly together by his magic – in the light of day.

"You saw it happen?" His glance was keen. "I'm sorry."

She sighed and shook her head, accepting his apology but rejecting any need for it. She'd seen enough to know that Mary had forced him into something he didn't want to do. "I wasn't sure how much you remembered."

Some humor returned. "You know, Arthur's already asked me that," he said, and leaned his head back to watch her moisten the soil of the pots on the other side of the table. "It must have been something pretty awful."

"You _don't_ remember, then?" she asked, glad for his sake. Hoping Arthur hadn't told him the worst of it, at least; she figured there would be no jokes about tails or saucers of milk for a long time.

He turned around to see her properly. "I remember the end," he said. She felt herself blushing, thinking of his hand in the center of her chest. "You offered me your magic."

"I did," she said.

A tiny wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. "I hope I didn't… hurt you, or scare you," he said.

"No," she said softly, reaching with another full dipperful of water.

He leaned forward to wrap his fingers lightly around her wrist, arresting her motion in the middle of the greenery. "Thank you."

"What Arthur said to you," she said, going to replace the empty dipper when he released her. "What you said. _Light of fire, and light of sun_… What was that? It sounded… significant."

"Part of the prophecy of Dinas Emrys," he said. "Seven years ago, that's been. When he and I opened the hill and freed the dragons. Just before the battle. What I said to him was part of the spell I used when I… healed his wound."

"_Keep the hope, await the king_," she repeated, leaning over the table. "It's beautiful."

"It's terrifying," he said with a low laugh. "Kilgarrah – the great dragon – once told me, that death would not prevent the fulfillment of prophecy, neither his nor mine."

"Well, that should be encouraging," she told him. "You should at least be able to trust that his life and yours are safe, then, until then."

"Prophecy is hardly ever clear until after its fulfillment," he said, relaxing again. "Even then, it's debatable."

She looked at him, sprawled on the rough bench, leaning back on the table. So young, to have seen and done the things he had. And to accept the constraints of responsibility that prophecy laid on him. _Life is never easy_, he'd said. To which Alator had responded, _No, and especially not yours_. She wished there was some way she could make it easier, for him.

"Well," she said finally. "Gwaine probably stopped for a drink somewhere, but he meant to be back here for dinner. Would you like to stay?"

"I would like nothing better," he told her, with a sweet confidentiality. He was still smiling, but – she looked at him again. There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before. Sadness, she thought, and didn't fully understand. "I wish I could – you don't know how much – but I'm afraid I've stayed too long already." He pulled his legs in, sat up straighter.

"Are they having another banquet?" she said playfully. "In your honor, maybe?"

"No." He snorted at the idea. "Freya, I… I came to say goodbye."

"I… don't understand." That it was time for him to return to the palace, to take his place in company with his prince and the rest of the nobility, yes. But that wasn't what he was saying.

"Arthur's decided to return to Camelot tomorrow, at first light," Merlin told her. "Because Thomas Collins was hired to kill him – he knows we need to find out who's behind it as soon as possible, or other people may be in danger. It's not fair if we stay… Gwen's been in danger twice now, and you… Your neighbors were killed because of this."

Tomorrow. At first light. Not eleven days. She focused on her breathing, and had to look away from his face, his eyes. She wanted to ask if they would be returning for the prince to continue his visit in preparation for his betrothal and marriage, and the words stuck in her throat. Because she had no right to ask that. No right to expect that he would even remember her, much less have the inclination or opportunity to see her again.

It hurt. But maybe it was better to do this quickly.

She swallowed and managed to say, "Goodbye, then, Merlin. It was nice to have met you, I hope you have a safe trip home." She turned away so she wouldn't have to see the confusion and hurt on his expressive face. So he wouldn't be able to see whatever emotion this was squeezing her heart so hard it surely must show. She pretended to busy herself picking dead leaves and firming the earth around the base of the plant in the pot nearest her hands. _Just go, please go quickly_.

Oh, hells, his clothes lying folded on her table. She didn't think she could get through walking down the stairs, going inside, picking up the garments she'd washed – she had planned to show him how the shirt had come clean in spite of the bloodstains – handing them over. You're welcome…

"Freya," he said behind her, "the other night when I was trying to leave, I would have given _anything _to stay here." She heard in his voice the yearning ache she had seen for a brief moment when he'd turned from the door in saying goodbye. "With you, with Gwaine, here in your garden, just sharing simple chores and… your life is uncomplicated and so rich, and you don't know how much I've longed for that, sometimes." She felt him come up behind her, and shifted to keep him from seeing her face. "I wanted to stay, so badly." His voice had lowered into a naked honesty that was nearly unbearable.

She reminded him, "But that was when you thought you had to die."

He wasn't touching her, but he was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body. "And now that I know I get to live?"

Her breath caught on something painful in her chest. She tipped her head up so that the tears so heavy in her eyes would not fall. He surely would not miss that; she'd have to wipe them from her face, and in a minute she'd be sniffling and both of them would be embarrassed and…

"Freya?" he said softly, brushing the backs of his fingers along her sleeve. She didn't answer; she couldn't, he would hear in her voice what she was determined to hide. "Freya, look at me." She shook her head in refusal, and he slid around the corner of the table, gently pushing her shoulder to force her where he could see her. "You're unhappy," he said, stating the observation with a hint of question.

She shook her head, denying the obvious again. She didn't want to tell him, he'd laugh at her or pity her or there would just be a horrible overwhelming awkwardness. And that would be what he remembered, if he remembered her at all. She avoided his eyes – so beautiful and intimate and funny and perceptive and…

"Why?" he said, coaxing an explanation.

And persistently compassionate. "Because I'm ridiculous," she told him, pulling her sleeve over her hand to try to dry the tears, without smearing the dirt from her fingers onto her face. Now that he knew, she had to figure out how to stop the tears, explain somehow so that he could get on with leaving.

"Why are you ridiculous?" he said with gentle protest, patient amusement.

"Because I thought… I might be able to enjoy having a tiny piece of something I can never share for a little while longer." She shrugged, and forgot she meant not to meet his gaze again.

He didn't understand. That made it a little better. "What?"

"Your life."

"I… don't understand." His confusion had an endearing quality.

She only smiled and said – honestly, and not to keep him or make him feel guilty, and abandoning the instinct to protect herself – "I'm going to miss you."

A bit of understanding dawned in his eyes, lightening the blue a shade, and loosening a smile again. "No, you're not," he told her.

"What do you mean?" she said. "I am, too." Then she realized he wasn't disagreeing with her feelings, but stating an intention of his own. "You can't stay," she added, "you know you can't. You know your place is with him. You need him as much as he needs you, and Merlin – the world needs both of you together." And she could not get in the way of that, she knew for a certainty.

"No, but I can – I mean, may I –" She'd not seen him like this, before. At a loss for words, or too unsure to be forthright. "If I was to write you a letter or send you a message? Would that be all right? Would you – would you write me back?"

"A pigeon?" she asked, still smiling, because it seemed a surreal idea. A joke, even.

His eyes twinkled, and maybe there was hope there. "It would have to be a bigger bird, to make the trip. A hawk, or an eagle, maybe."

Freya pictured herself alone on the roof, sitting on the parapet in the serenity of darkness, the rush of a wider wingspan, the novelty of a nobler bird arriving for _her_. A thrill shot through her at the possibility of maintaining even the remotest contact with him, of reading his words and hearing his voice in her mind and being able to tell him things also… She imagined the quill in his strong slender fingers, writing the letters of her name, and warmth crept out along the passage of the thrill.

Then she imagined him sitting at some ornate desk in a palace chamber, the prince of Camelot and Gaius the court physician standing in front of him, asking in confusion, _what are you doing_? And he would say, _remember that girl in Lionys, I'm writing to her…_

She blurted out the obvious question. "_Why_?"

"Because… I've never known anyone like you."

His uncharacteristic shyness served to settle her with some courage born of the conviction that he was simply trying to cheer her with a bit of light teasing. "Merlin," she told him, "I've never known anyone like you, either."

He smiled like it was the best compliment anyone had ever given him, sudden and so wide that boyish dimples showed. "Then I can write to you? And you'll write me back?"

She sighed, leaning back against the table. A pretty dream, but… "I don't think so," she said softly. He might think he owed her something more now, but when he got back to Camelot, such an agreement might be a burden to him.

A bit more of hurt in the confusion. And that was another reason to say a final farewell, right away, for his sake. "Why not?" he said.

"Because. I can't." _I shouldn't_.

He twisted his head, trying to read her; she was trying not to let him. "I'm not asking you for anything," he said softly, "except, not to say goodbye for good?"

_I want that more than anything._ Ye gods, why was he making this so difficult? She waved her hand to indicate her home – one room, shared with her brother, the roof and the meager garden-pots. "This is me. And that –" she turned to gaze at the towers of the palace that rose over the city. "That's you."

He studied her a moment, dropping his chin and narrowing his eyes. "I think you may have the wrong idea about my life, Freya."

"Camelot," she said. "Gaius, and _Arthur_…"

"I sleep in a storeroom," Merlin said, and she shut her mouth in surprise. "About half the size of your home. Off the back of the physician's quarters, I have the use of it as part of the apprenticeship. My mother's house in Ealdor is very like yours here, but I didn't even have a cot, there. Dirt floor and a blanket. When I wasn't sleeping in the cave with the dragons, or on the ground with Aithusa's wing for a tent. Like where I grew up – you've been with the druids, you remember. A tent that this table would not have fit inside, a narrow rush mat right next to another, where my mother slept. Moving every other week, when the lord of the land found out about our clan, or decided that we'd overstayed his reluctant welcome."

"But someday," she argued softly. "When Arthur is king…"

He groaned. "Do not remind me. Freya, if I have any say at all in the matter, my ambition is to occupy the physician's chamber – as apprentice as long as Gaius is still able to fill the position, then as Camelot's court physician myself. And keep the freedom to wander the woods and gather my own herbs and fly with my dragons… I will die slowly if they dress me up and make me live in council chambers. Here." He did as she had just done, spread his arms to indicate her rooftop, her plants. "I belong here. Under the sky, among the growing things that you've raised… because you've given life to me, too."

She had to use her sleeve on her face again. She thought her heart was shivering, inside her. It felt like that. "You can just say thank you, and leave it at that," she said softly.

He stepped right up next to her, taking her hand to stop the motion. Then catching another tear on his thumb. "You really don't realize how special you are, do you?" he said, in a sort of intense bewilderment.

She wanted to scoff. But those eyes told her how serious he was, how vulnerable he was making himself. She _did not_ understand. "I'm not. I'm ordinary and common…"

He swooped down suddenly and kissed her lips, the pressure of his mouth light and brief, but it was enough to stop her talking. "You're strong and sweet and gentle," he said. "You're beautiful and caring and understanding and way too generous."

She stared at him, and his eyes broke the contact to dip to her mouth again. And her memory betrayed her with the smell of roses and the taste of juniper and salt, the sound of his voice as he said, _I like you_, the feel of his body embracing her and the softness of his hair when it was clean… "Okay," she blurted. "I'll write back to you."

He laughed, throwing his head back even as his hands slid around her.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?"

She heard the grin in Gwaine's voice before she saw it on his face, as she spun about, startled. Merlin released her, unhurried. Not bothered that her brother had seen the moment of greater intimacy.

How was she going to explain to Gwaine? She couldn't say to him, it's only a casual correspondence, not with the warning he'd given her only yesterday. She couldn't claim it was anything more, though, either. He was not going to be happy with her, she thought. Gwaine continued up the stair, stepping over the parapet careful of his injured leg, to join them on the roof.

"I suppose I should say," Merlin remarked to him, "if you should notice rather a large bird frequenting your rooftop – an eagle, or maybe an owl – don't bother it."

Gwaine's grin turned frighteningly diabolical. "Passing notes?" he suggested. "From Camelot to Lionys? Love letters?" Merlin's eyebrows rose, but otherwise he didn't betray the emotion behind his reaction.

Her face flamed. "Oh, for goodness sake, Gwaine!" she exclaimed, slapping his upper arm. "It's not like that."

They both looked at her. "It's not?" Gwaine said, turning his attention again to Merlin.

"Well, not yet," the young sorcerer said defensively. Freya felt like she needed to sit down.

"I have a better idea," Gwaine said. _Way_ too innocently. "You decided on this – correspondence idea, because Arthur wants to return to Camelot immediately, didn't you?"

"How did you know that?" Freya demanded.

And Merlin said, "Yes," drawing the word out into a demand for Gwaine to continue.

"Had a word with Arthur after the ceremony," Gwaine said. "You'll never guess what he offered me." His grin widened at the look of sudden comprehension on Merlin's face. "Oh, I see – he didn't get a chance to mention this to you, did he? Maybe if you hadn't left so quickly?"

"I think I can guess," Merlin said, a twinkle entering his eyes, his lips curving in a smile. "He asked if you'd like a job? Ever done guard duty for a traveling prince?"

"It'll be a first," Gwaine agreed easily.

"You're traveling with Arthur back to Camelot?" Freya said. "What about your leg?"

"Healing nicely, Finna said. A bit stiff, but we'll be riding."

Freya found that the impulse to cry hadn't completely left her. Although, everyone else was. She didn't even have neighbors anymore for company. She leaned close to nudge her brother with her shoulder, instead of throwing her arms around him and sobbing into his shirt, as she felt like doing. "You just got home," she reminded him.

He hummed agreeably. Then he said, astoundingly, "You should come with."

Merlin abruptly crossed his arms and lowered his head, biting his lip as he watched them under the fringe of black hair over his forehead, keeping himself deliberately out of the discussion.

"You've never said that before," she said to Gwaine, a little stupidly. "What about the danger – that's the whole reason you're going, right?"

"Sometimes," Gwaine explained, perturbed, "all that is necessary to prevent harm or theft by violence, is a show of strength."

"But –" she said.

"Lady Guinevere is coming," Gwaine commented, his dark eyes twinkling at both of them. "To visit Camelot – ah, you didn't know that either, did you – _do_ I hear the wedding bells?"

Merlin stared at him, astonished, then began to grin. "A quest of danger and magic," he said inexplicably, and turned his shining happiness on her. "If you come," he added, "I'll introduce you to Gaius, I'll show you his books, and where to find water mint and rosemary and bluebell and hawthorne –"

"_Oh_," she said, feeling resistance crumble like a physical thing.

"That's done it," Gwaine said to Merlin. "Although, a quick word, man to man? Don't make it necessary for me to hurt you." Gwaine took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of satisfaction, ignoring both her offended gasp and Merlin's beginning protest. "So you're staying for dinner, right?"

**A/N: All right, this will be it for a while… Thanks to everyone for expressing support/encouragement for my rl right now, I appreciate it.**

**And some dialogue from ep.2.9 "The Lady of the Lake."**

LCT: Yeah, that calm is necessary, once in a while. But in this case, it's more like the eye of the storm… and more is coming. Your guess for what is in store is absolutely right, too, btw.


	15. Traveling

**A/N: So I'm back! Thanks everybody for patience and well-wishes… **

**Good news is, **_**Towers of Lionys**_** is done in rough draft form! Bad news is, it's November (my first NaNoWriMo, wish me luck!) and I'm five days behind getting started with my original story. So the updates for Lionys may come slowly and sporadically… and I have no idea as to the chapter count, yet.**

**So priorities will be: first, my nano story. Second, updating **_**Lionys**_**. Third, reading whatever stories I have promised to along the way, that have been finished since last month – there have been a lot, you all have been busy! And checking out new stories… and updating my other original on fictionpress… omg, who has time for rl?**

**PS, because I'm adding Arthur's and Merlin's povs (or is the plural psov?) to Gwen's and Freya's, please let me know if it would be helpful to begin each section with a title/header (like: Gwen pov)…**

**LCT: A bit more lull before the storm… **

**Chapter 15: Traveling**

Not five tents, but one, though it was comfortably roomy. Gwen had to duck to get through the flap doorway, but at least she didn't have to crawl. There was a ground sheet that attached to the walls in such a way as to discourage unwanted visitors from ants to snakes, and though she'd chosen a bedroll over the bulkier apparatus of a cot, there was enough space for two of them.

It had surprised her to find that Gwaine expected to bring his sister. The prince had supplied the swordsman himself with a mount, but Freya was made comfortable in the supply cart. It had also surprised her that Arthur seemed to think nothing of it, and though Elyan had glanced questions at Lancelot and Percival at first, the two knights took their cue from the prince, as the ranking leader of the journey, and Sir Leon, who accepted Arthur's decision, in this at least, without comment.

The second day of travel had been more enjoyable than the first; Freya had very capably made room for Gwen on the cart, so she had the option of leaving the saddle for a more comfortable seat and quiet conversation or companionable quiet.

After one night of sharing a fire and a stewpot and the chores of the camp, and putting one day's distance between themselves and the city of Lionys, the men seemed more relaxed. Not, Gwen reflected, tying the last section of canvas floor to the wall-sheet, that they had been tense, before. They were just – less aware of differences, now. The glimpse she'd had the morning on the training field, when Percival had brought Gwaine with his news of Merlin, was less a flash of insight and more a growing realization, now. These six warriors got along, she thought, uncommonly well for men who had been strangers less than a week ago. And Merlin, who has not like any of them, not a swordsman nor a noble, still seemed to fit between any two of the others as though he'd known each all his life.

Someone fumbled at the flap of the tent, and Gwen pivoted in her crouch as the other girl managed to force her way through, her arms full of bundles.

"My lady," Freya said, a little breathlessly, with a quick sweet smile from her brown eyes before she dropped them respectfully. "Your things."

Gwen got to her feet, though she had to keep knees and head bent against the angle of the low ceiling panel of the tent. "Freya," she said, mildly exasperated. "I told you yesterday, you can just call me Gwen. We're not in a palace, after all." She reached to free her pack and bedroll from the younger girl's burden.

"Yes, m- I mean, of course," Freya said, not immediately letting go of the bedroll. "I can do that for you, if you like? It's no trouble… while I'm doing mine?"

"My maid's name is Enid," Gwen said conversationally, taking her things with a gentle insistence. "She stayed in Lionys. I expected to have to do for myself on this trip, I am capable of it, and I don't mind it a bit." She turned, dumping her pack unceremoniously and untying the cord that wrapped the bundle of blanket and flat pillow.

Freya moved to copy her actions more slowly and with more care. "Do you miss her?" she said in a low voice.

"A little," Gwen said. "She's a good friend, someone to talk to. When – if – I marry and leave Lionys, she'll probably continue in my service. But for this short of a trip…" She paused in smoothing out the wrinkles of her blanket and waited until the younger girl looked up. "I don't need a maid," she finished, in as kind a voice as she could.

"Oh," Freya said only, then resumed tidying up her side of the tent.

Gwen watched her; she'd been quiet as they traveled both days, friendly enough when someone rode next to the cart – which they all did, though mostly Gwaine, Merlin, or Gwen herself in taking a break from the unforgiving contours of the saddle. She thought Freya might be a little surprised also to find herself on this trip, and not quite sure what her role was.

As a female, the men - gentlemen all by their actions – unconsciously provided for Freya the way they did for Gwen, either by preemptively doing, or by courteously offering. A hand in getting in and out of the cart, help in rearranging the contents for a rider's comfort, more food or water or any one of a dozen small comforts. As a commoner, however, Freya seemed to feel it was her place to serve.

"But," Gwen added deliberately, reaching to pull the far corner of Freya's blanket straight, "I could do with a friend?"

"Me?"

"Why not?" Gwen returned. The other girl gave her a sweet shy smile, but this time did not drop her eyes as she nodded. "Come on," Gwen added, giving Freya a mischievous smile. "I think I smell Elyan's cooking."

"That's just smoke from the –" Freya objected, then caught the joke and smiled. Gwen reached to move the tent-flap as Freya pulled a roll of clean bandages and a little jar of ointment from her pack, and held the canvas out of the way for her to exit first. "Thank you," Freya said, and Gwen hummed acknowledgement.

Outside the tent, the men were busy setting up the campsite and preparing to settle for the night – accommodations for everyone to wash, to eat, to sleep, to the best comfort possible.

It was curious to her, how the males had established a hierarchy within the group, because it didn't follow the logic of rank or even experience, necessarily. Arthur was the accepted leader, and as prince that was his right. However, though Elyan held the next-highest rank, he deferred to the others - and she as the third demanded none of her rights, either. Sir Leon was second in command, and as the oldest probably represented the most experience, though it could be argued that Lancelot's position of captain and his loyalty to the two de Gransses should put him above the other, he seemed to accept Leon's unstated authority also. Then Percival and Gwaine, though a commoner, by reason of a long friendship with the other knight, and a characteristic verbosity and lack of reverence, seemed each content to be the other's equal. Then Elyan, because of his natural inclination to passivity and lack of experience. She and Freya, though not consulted, were kept respectfully informed of important details – their position and progress, plans for location and timing of stops.

And Merlin. She could not definitively place where he fell in the hierarchy, and rather suspected that the young sorcerer uniquely and unintentionally defied such categorization.

Freya stepped to the left, where her brother was seated on a fallen log, removing his boots. The younger girl murmured something to him as she joined him, and Gwaine exclaimed in playful irritation, "Well, you told me to –" before Freya shushed him, then began to roll up the leg of his trousers in preparation to tend the cut he'd gotten in defending them all at the banquet the slavers had interrupted. Merlin knelt a few paces in front of them, heating water from a nearby stream in a bucket for washing, as Lancelot and Elyan were setting up the cook-fire some distance away. The young sorcerer was absently sculpting pictures in the steam rising from the bucket, she was amused to note.

And Arthur, she glimpsed by the horses, with Percival and the brown-garbed driver who had accompanied them from Camelot. Another mark in Arthur's favor that she'd noted the previous night as well – he might have sat upon his rank and his backside while the rest did the work for him, but though she suspected he chose tasks that he enjoyed – like handling the horses – or at least didn't mind doing, he did help.

She moved to join him as he groomed her mare with swift yet adequate efficiency. "Hey, old girl," she said, smoothing the white blaze on the mare's nose with her fingertips; the mare responded by nudging her shoulder. "You like that, huh?"

"Your father has quite a fine stable," Arthur commented, handing her the brush as he bent to run his hands down the horse's legs, one then the next, gentle and firm and sure. Gwen moved to her mare's other side, running the brush negligently over the brown coat, dulled with sweat and dust.

Beyond the horse's head, Gwaine was pulling his boot back on; Merlin straightened and shrugged off his jacket as Freya spoke to him, looking up from her seat on the log. Gwen continued to run the brush over the barrel of her mount, careful in an inattentive sort of way of the lay of the hair on the horse's hide, but watched curiously as the young sorcerer unfastened and dropped his belt. Merlin dragged his rather faded red shirt over his head, mussing his hair, but kept his arms in the sleeves as he crouched down to sit on the log Gwaine had vacated. There were bandages wrapped around his upper body; Gwen was surprised until she remembered the spots of blood on his shirt when Arthur had returned with him to her father's palace, and the prince's explanation, _his back is scraped up a bit_. As Freya reached to begin unwinding the bandages, Merlin turned toward Gwen to say something to the younger girl over his shoulder, his grin wide and his eyes twinkly.

Arthur passed in front of her to begin to check the next horse on the picket line.

"I thought you said, Merlin doesn't notice girls," Gwen chided him gently, speaking low enough that none of the others would overhear.

The prince straightened and turned, and they both watched Freya wad the old bandage on the trunk next to her, and begin to dab at the injury on Merlin's back, out of Gwen's sight by the angle of the young man's body. By the color and expression in Freya's face, it was obvious to Gwen what the girl was thinking and feeling.

Arthur said, "He doesn't. He didn't. She's just –" he turned back to face her, his blue eyes distant with memory and clouded as the sky – "different. She helped to save his life."

"She's a healer?" Gwen said, mildly confused. They'd spoken of Freya's knowledge of herbal remedies, and her garden, but she thought the healer who'd assisted Alator was an older woman named Finna.

"No. She just… talked him through the roughest patch of the curse." Arthur reached to take the brush from her hand and she let him, though he only toyed with it instead of using it. "She had a… different idea, than what we were trying, and it worked. Merlin did… something, with his magic…" His lips twisted sideways in a half-smile, half-grimace. "Or with hers, maybe. She has a little magic, I gather, but his was… affected by the curse. Whatever he did, or she did, or they did… it worked."

"And now?" Gwen said. Arthur glanced over his shoulder again. Freya leaned around Merlin to say something to his face, her hand on the curve of his ribs for balance, a near-unconscious familiarity. "I was a bit surprised that you agreed she could come, honestly."

Arthur turned back, his attention now focused on the mount, his movements once again purposeful. "She's Gwaine's responsibility," he said, his eyes on his work. "Though I rather think Merlin assumes her protection also, to the best of his ability."

"As he does for all of us," Gwen said softly, almost a question.

He glanced up at her, his lips quirking humorously. "I wondered if you'd realized that." Beyond Freya and Merlin, who still sat with his shirt over only his arms, Lancelot called that the meal was ready. "You go," Arthur added. "I'm almost done here."

"Shall I save you a seat?" Gwen said, half-teasingly. She put both hands lightly on his back as she moved past him out from between the two horses, both to guide him out of her way and to let him know by feel where she was, so he wouldn't inadvertently knock into her or tread on her feet as he finished his work.

"If you like." He flashed a grin at her. "Or I can just order one of the men to give me theirs."

She didn't bother trying to hide a smirk. They both knew the friendly uproar that would result if he tried to use his rank for something like that. But she chose a place near the middle of a shorter log that Leon had dragged close to the fire, in anticipation of the prince sharing it with her.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Not such a good thing," Merlin commented over his bared shoulder to Freya, his grin brilliant, even mostly in profile, "when the acting physician of the expedition is himself in need of treatment."

"I may make a half-decent assistant myself by the time we get to Camelot," Freya said, untying the ends of the bandage that wrapped his upper body, reaching around him to pass the loose end from one hand to the other in gathering it up.

"You'll do me out of a job," Merlin answered. She flinched as she peeled the end of the strip of cloth loose from the half-healed scrapes on the inside edges of his shoulder-blades, though he didn't react with any sign of discomfort. "How is Gwaine's leg?"

"You can probably take the stitches out when we reach Camelot," she said, dabbing at the scrapes with a clean section of the used bandage dipped in some of the water he'd heated.

Gwaine had refused Merlin's offer of immediate healing; it had reminded Freya of Merlin taking her hand – _normally I'd agree with you_, he'd said to her claim, _it can heal on it's own_. Gwaine's easy, _Nah, it'll be fine in a few days_, far from offending the younger man, had somehow served to strengthen the beginning friendship.

"Are you cold?" she added, waiting a moment for his skin to dry before dabbing some of the darkly-tinted comfrey ointment Finna had given her over the raw abrasions. "I think it would be a good idea to leave these open to the air for a while – maybe while we eat? – and then use a loose, dry bandage to cover them while you sleep."

"Whatever you say," Merlin answered agreeably, his head turned slightly to watch Leon, Lancelot, and Elyan around the cookfire with supper preparations.

Freya was glad that he hadn't shown any more personal favor to her than the general friendly cheer that seemed a habitual demeanor for him. Nothing like their conversation on his rooftop – _I like you, I've never known anyone like you, how special you are_. No hugs, no flowers, no kisses, though she couldn't tell if he wanted to, and merely held back because of embarrassment of an audience, or if he was completely satisfied with adding her to the group of friends he surrounded himself with, and had no thought of anything further.

She was also a little sad, that he hadn't.

Freya balanced herself with a hand on his back – hard bone and firm muscle and smooth warm skin – as she leaned forward to catch his attention. "Is it hurting you?" she asked quietly, referring to the healing marks. "During the day, when you're riding?"

He tucked his chin down by his arm to meet her eyes more directly, and the blue of his was deep and clear. "It's fine," he told her with unquestionable sincerity. "Couldn't be better. It's perfect, that comfrey ointment, and your job of bandaging."

They both glanced up as the Lady Guinevere stopped to wash her hands, coming from a private conversation with the prince at the picket line to the campfire-circle where they would eat. The older girl didn't speak, but gave them a smile of awareness and approval that had Freya's face warming, before she rose and joined the group around the cook-fire.

"She's quite complex," she commented with thinking.

Merlin made a noise of vague agreement. "That's good," he told her, and added a grin with a mischievous twinkle. "Because Arthur really is quite simple."

"I heard that," the prince said; he was closer behind Gwen than Freya had been aware of.

Over her startled and apologetic gasp, Merlin returned innocently, "Heard what?" He ducked his head into the neck of his shirt.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said warningly. He stripped off his gloves, tucking them into the bend of his hip as he squatted by the bucket of wash-water. "Freya, give him a poke for me." She wasn't sure if that was an order she should follow, but the prince added, "How is he doing?" right after, so she decided to ignore the first comment in favor of answering the second.

"Healing very nicely," she said. Arthur poured a dipperful of the warmed water over his hands to scrub them vigorously. She winced, remembering the slice across his palm that she'd tended a few nights back. "Would you like me to have a look at your cut, sire?" she added.

His upward glance was sharp – and probably matched the one Merlin gave him, judging by the swift stiffening of the sorcerer's body. "Your hand?" Merlin said intently.

Arthur's face was absolutely unreadable as he looked from Merlin to her. He lifted his dripping hands to show both of them unmarred palms. "No, I'm fine," he stated evenly. "See?"

Magic, was Freya's initial thought. But – if Merlin had healed the cut, why would Arthur have to show him, remind him… if Merlin had healed… She remembered his magelight glowing around their joined hands, remembered the magic presenting her a rose rather than strawberries. No, she wouldn't be surprised to learn for certain that Merlin's magic had healed Arthur of that particular injury in that moment of cleansing itself of the curse, also. Or that Arthur had told him nothing of it, either.

Merlin twisted around to look at her, and she busied herself in rolling the back of his shirt to keep it off the raw scrapes. "Don't move now," she instructed, not meeting his eyes, hoping he'd forget and drop the subject. "I'll bring your dinner."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Guinevere, Arthur had been pleased to observe – the second day, which was always more instructive than the first – was very much like Morgana. At least when it came to traveling. Her wit wasn't mercilessly sharp like his sister's, her humor more gentle and understated, but she was true to her promise to cause no more problems than her brother did. Not that he ever caused any, pleasantly mild-mannered for a lord's son.

The lady rode as well as the men, with never a word of complaint – not a silent sufferer, but as though she really was comfortable enough in the saddle and enjoying the pleasantries of the trip.

He watched her leave the horses to cross their campsite to the cookfire. She wore dark trousers and boots, a light long-sleeved shirt embroidered with large uncomplicated flowers, light-yellow on cream, under a deep purple tunic, sleeveless and knee-length though split several inches for riding, trimmed with gray fur around the loose collar. Beautiful but not showy. Practical without losing a sense of refinement.

Arthur found he was glad Lord Lionel had given his consent, however reluctantly. Her presence – and Freya's too, probably, though to a lesser extent – eased the tension of the journey, returning to Camelot to wrestle with a mystery of his own planned murder. And betrayal.

He wondered if it had occurred to anyone else, that the one who had hired the Collins pair had anticipated his arrival in Lionys. How many had known of his intended visit to the southern province at all, much less that he'd decided to go there first? Even supposing that Thomas – and Mary – had been willing to wait for his eventual appearance, or that Lionel had been careless enough to spread the word of the expected prince, the number of men who'd been privy to Arthur's final list of spousal candidates, even those who may have known of the king's order for his son to marry and guessed at the reason and destination of the messengers, was hardly long.

Gwen paused momentarily to wash her hands, and in profile he could see her smile at Merlin, perched on a fallen log as Freya frowned delicately over the deep scrapes on his shoulders. No words were exchanged, but they both returned the lady's look happily and without hesitation.

He was reminded of the first time he'd seen Guinevere de Gransse with his friend. Coming down the ravine, feeling relief at seeing Merlin present and unharmed, a bit of puzzlement in noticing Gwen seated behind him on the ground, looking disheveled and exhausted. And in that one instant when Merlin's whole face lighted to see him, Arthur recognized that the young sorcerer had placed himself between Guinevere and whoever might have been coming. Maybe it said more about Merlin's character, the readiness to protect even the undeserving, but Arthur was used to the looks his friend received from the nobility in Camelot, or even the deliberate lack of attention. He'd seen Gwen's expression as she crossed the small yard behind Alator's house, when she hurried across the cobblestones before the front step of the palace of Lionys toward the cart. Very quickly her thoughts had turned to Merlin's wellbeing, and even after considerable conversation with Lord de Gransse about his daughter's hand in marriage, Gwen had still been sitting with Merlin when Arthur had arrived.

He wasn't really worried about Uther's interaction with his future bride – the king had approved every name on the list, and would treat any one of them with courtesy and benevolence. She seemed comfortable interacting with knights, the fighting nobility, and Leon was easy to get on with anyway; though Arthur rather thought his senior knight's _respect_ would be harder to earn, Gwen was well on her way with that. He hoped that Morgana might have a chance to meet his choice before an actual wedding ceremony, but he honestly didn't know when or if his half-sister would return to Camelot.

But Merlin. The idea he'd carried since Dinas Emrys, that the druid boy would be important if not vital to his rule someday, had been reinforced this past week. And his future bride's relationship with the sorcerer was one that Arthur would consider, in making this choice. Or in following through on the choice he'd already decided to make.

Arthur flipped the brush once in the air thoughtfully, then caught Percival's eye before tossing it to him to pack away again before they ate.

As they all settled around with bowls of stew and chunks of flatbread, Gwaine remarked, "Whose turn is it for storytelling tonight?"

The previous night taciturn Leon had the girls giggling uncontrollably with a drolly understated version of his unintentional courtship. He and Elena had been passing acquaintances, when Uther Pendragon was still a warlord; Elena and Morgana dashing about the countryside on their riding horses, and Leon a quiet knight-in-training, and then a scout. Here Lancelot had made a dry remark, a joke that played on the definition of scouting. And Leon had gone on to describe with a curious tender wit Elena's days of struggle, wanting to do her duty and agree with Arthur's proposal to consider an arrangement, with her own growing attraction for the messenger who she spent days laughing and riding and reminiscing with.

Arthur, knowing Elena, had seen the earnest, scatter-brained, tragic, awkward young blonde in the tale – and at the same time Leon's love for her had been evident also, in the gentle handling of the telling of it.

"Merlin," Gwen said deliberately, in answer to Gwaine's comment, "claimed that he had been to banquets comparable to our disaster the other night – I'd like to hear about those."

"What?" Arthur said in protest, throwing the younger man an obvious and contrived glare.

"Bayard," Merlin reminded him, with a significant lift of his eyebrows.

"Merlin, _you_ made that banquet a disaster," Arthur pointed out, and elaborated to the rest of the group, "He claims a goblet is poisoned and insists on being the one to drink from it, then faints like a girl right in front of everyone."

"I did not faint," Merlin argued, grinning amid the others' reactions – Freya with quiet concern, Gwaine with uproarious laughter, Gwen with mock-offense at Arthur's choice of description as detrimental to her gender. "You could say I passed out or lost consciousness, couldn't you? I mean, you've done it often enough."

Percival snorted and choked on his stew – Lancelot glanced a question at Leon, who rolled his eyes, and Gwaine fell off the back of his log, miraculously not spilling his dinner.

"When I've been wounded," Arthur clarified, enunciating each word deliberately.

"I think poison counts," Merlin maintained.

Arthur rolled his eyes and continued with his story, addressing Gwen. "War very nearly breaks out in our banquet hall – I'm telling you, my little sister has her knife out –" Leon, the only one who knew Morgana, snickered – "and Merlin's just snoozing away –"

"Poisoned, remember?" Merlin mumbled, a glint of humor in his eyes.

"So what happened?" Gwen said.

"I said, don't worry, Merlin, you just have a nice comfortable lie-in, and I'll take care of this one. Ride to the forest of Balor, pick a flower from a bloody dark cave –"

"I helped as much as I could," Merlin interjected.

"Just snoozing away in Camelot," Gwaine repeated, nudging the younger man as he maneuvered back into an upright position.

"And the poison?" Elyan asked.

"Gaius made him an antidote, and he got an extra three days off from work," Arthur told them, and Merlin grinned like a fool at the laughter, the tips of his ears red.

"Was that your first experience with an assassination attempt?" Lancelot asked seriously, and the merriment dwindled.

Arthur met Merlin's eyes, saw him remembering also. Saw the question there that they'd asked after Bayard's first visit. How far was the High Priestess involved?

"We never did find out definitively if the poisoned goblet was meant to kill Arthur," Merlin said finally, then with a deep subtle hint of jest, said directly to Arthur, "It's complicated." He groaned, remembering his impatience with Merlin's lack of explanation following the abortive druid sacrifice so many years ago.

"What about the other banquet?" Gwaine asked. "Good story, or no?"

Arthur didn't immediately answer, so Merlin did. "Morgana's birthday," he told them, his eyes on Arthur. "A knight in full battle armor, and mounted, comes crashing through the window of the banquet hall to throw a gauntlet at the high table."

Silence. Except for the dusky noises of crickets, distant frogs near the water source. A rush of predator's wings, a rustle of tiny escaping prey in the leaves.

"And then what?" Elyan said.

This time it was Arthur who answered. "I lost two young knights. Two friends. In single combat challenges. Before my father defeated the stranger." In Merlin's eyes he could see the agreement to the abbreviated version of the story – leaving out the identity of the black knight and the magic that had raised him. The question there, too, of the involvement of the High Priestess and the target of her plot.

He felt a hand slide into his and would have spilled his stew in his startled twitch, if the bowl had not been nearly empty already. Guinevere's small, strong hand squeezed his, conveying sympathy and support. He felt stronger somehow, feeling her next to him, accepting the danger that seemed to characterize his life more often than not, without flinching.

"Never a dull moment in Camelot?" she said to him wryly, and he gave her an answering smile of admission.

Merlin said mildly to them all, "There will be. When Arthur is king."

Perhaps it started, sounding like a joke. Perhaps Merlin even intended it as one. But by the time he finished speaking, _dull_ had somehow become _peaceful_, and the sorcerer's prediction held more than a hint of promise.

Merlin glanced sideways at the girl seated next to him on the log, then handed Freya his bowl before adjusting his shirt. Everyone was quiet as he stood and stepped away from the campfire, scooping up his bundled jacket and belt before melting into the gray twilight gloom behind the group's single tent.

"He's had a hard week," Gwen said softly beside him, reminding herself as much as him, he thought.

Across the small clearing, Freya turned back from watching Merlin's retreat, twisting on the fallen log to meet her brother's eyes. Gwaine seemed to have anticipated the look, and understood some unspoken request his sister's glance made. Evidently he disagreed in some capacity; he shook his head once and Freya subsided, with a quick self-conscious look around the company. Arthur dropped his eyes before she met them.

The others seemed to respect the young sorcerer's need for solitude, covering his absence with more common fireside conversation and teasing. The last servings of stew and rations of bread were quarreled over without rancor, and the girls gathered the wooden bowls to wash as the men turned their attention to organizing positions and scheduling for sleep and watch. Because there were seven men, he'd suggested a four-man watch each night, leaving most of them free to enjoy uninterrupted sleep on the off night; Gwaine had volunteered to be the one man on watch each night, since he was officially a hired guard.

Arthur was drawn into a conversation with Leon and Lancelot over whether they should travel in a straight route to Camelot and risk the banditry of the forest – a larger group might deter unwanted attention from thieves, but the cart would be an attraction – or follow the more open land nearer the river. The second route would take them up to half a day longer to reach their destination, but might prove a safer journey over open ground where no ambush or attack could take them unaware.

The question wasn't settled. Didn't have to be, for another day. Speed was important, but they had the two girls and the unarmed servant to consider. Arthur turned away, seeing Gwen and Elyan in comfortable conversation, Gwane and Percival casually running the blades of their knives over sharpening stones, the commoner reaching to point out some detail of the task or tools to the knight.

Someone was missing. Merlin hadn't returned, but… Freya was gone as well.

Arthur had no wish to embarrass any of them by asking the question out loud, _Gwaine where's your sister_, but he stepped through the campsite, heading into the soft gloom, lightened by the flare of their campfire as Leon tended it, adding fuel. He paused briefly beside Gwaine, who glanced up at him, then sent a look around the clearing as though he anticipated what he would see – or who he wouldn't. He looked up again at Arthur with a twisted grin.

"Can I trust him with her?" he asked, keeping his voice low for once.

Arthur raised one eyebrow. "Can I trust her with him?" he returned.

Gwaine chuckled and nodded, conceding the point. "Give 'em a few minutes," he advised. That only made Arthur want to hurry more.

He moved further into the surrounding trees, up a gentle rise that protected their chosen site, toward the edge of darkness, circling obliquely in the direction Merlin had taken. He'd been impressed with Freya's presence of mind, generosity and concern for Merlin, the indications he'd gathered that she understood the young sorcerer's importance. But it was true that Merlin didn't think about girls the same way as other young men, and Arthur didn't want to predict his actions or reactions when he realized that one who might be interested in him was right there.

What had Gwaine been thinking?

He saw them before they noticed him. Or at least, he silently amended, halting in his tracks, before _she_ noticed him. With Merlin it was sometimes hard to tell how much he noticed of his surroundings. But Freya would have jumped and put some distance between herself and the young man beside her, if she'd realized they were observed – and especially by _him_, Arthur thought.

Merlin stood leaning sideways against the trunk of a tree at the top of a gentle ridge, the distant firelight only a soft glow, the voices a nearly inaudible murmur. His old brown jacket was on, his head tipped back as if to study the few stars coming out, in the gaps in the foliage of the trees overhead. Freya stood leaning against him, her side against his for the full length of her body, her skirt clinging lightly to his trouser leg. Their hands were linked, behind them, as if their hands had met, innocently unconscious, hers slipping naturally into his, or his instinctively gathering hers. Neither of them moved, nor spoke, nor looked at the other, simply sharing a companionable solitude.

Arthur felt a faint embarrassment as he took one noiseless step backward, then another. Not because he'd intruded on a moment of harmless intimacy, but because it was odd to him to see a girl like Freya – pretty and intelligent and sweet – favoring Merlin. Sometimes he still saw the skinny lonely druid boy, and sometimes he glimpsed a vast power that transcended the slight frame and clumsy tendencies that often made strangers underestimate his friend. Freya clearly saw a desirable young man capable of returning her love – whether Merlin ever realized that or not – and it discomfited Arthur that he was surprised.

Why not, after all. He'd been only a year or so older than Merlin was now, when he'd announced to his father and the court his intention of marrying Sophia. Everyone had taken him seriously – except Merlin, though for wholly different reasons.

He took another step. Merlin deserved his happiness. And if that meant Freya, if she was to be the one for him, even temporarily, then Arthur was happy. He had no reason to be jealous of Merlin's time or attention. And if – when – he did marry, probably it was best that Merlin had someone he could turn to when Arthur's time and attention was taken by his new bride.

Arthur continued his stealthy retreat from the young couple. Things would never be the same for any of them again. But that was life.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was cool away from the fire, and Merlin was glad to shrug into his jacket, careful of the healing wounds on his back, as much as for the discomfort as for the possibility of staining his shirt. He walked quickly, quietly, breathing deeply of the damp green of a forest at twilight, searching for a place where he could see a bit of open sky. Just a few short years ago, he thought, he'd simply have chosen one of the taller trees to climb. Well, maybe later.

He felt caught _between_. A sensation uncomfortably close to the weight of the curse in his mind and on his body. Between a world of childish simplicity – _my life, my magic is for Arthur's protection_ – and the maturity that promised many more tangled choices as he'd faced with Mordred and Morgana. Between the lands of Lionys and Camelot – though both held enemies, danger to both him and Arthur, Lionys had accepted and applauded his magic, had offered romance with the adventure. Camelot would be stifled and suspicious once again, while Uther yet lived. And as Arthur's friend, he hoped the prince kept his father for many more years yet.

He was caught between the desire to relax his personal vigilance and enjoy the company without the responsibility for defense against the unknown, and the growing alarm at the back of his mind that this was not an isolated incidence of Odin's spiteful caprice.

Leaning against a tree and looking up and out from the gentle rise in the land, he did something he'd twice been prevented from doing, this week.

_Aithusa_. He sent the telepathic call winging through the magic of the night, questing outward for the consciousness of his kin.

_Merlin_. The white dragon answered as he had, with a simple voicing of his name in acknowledgement of the call, but there was more than a hint that Aithusa was pleased at the contact. He went on, humorously reminded Merlin of their last conversation the previous autumn, _It's been a hard month?_

Merlin responded without words, sending a series of lightning-flash images. The attack. The curse. The two magic-users who had forced him to end their lives. Freya. And Gwen. And the four men they'd met who journeyed now with them. Back to Camelot, and the expectation of dealing with the ongoing threat to Arthur's life.

Aithusa sent a burst of sympathy, stalwart but unsurprised. A dragon's life was unceasing conflict and question, the insight of their magic making each day a confusion of decisions – to ignore, to act, to discover, to abandon, to orchestrate. He and Merlin understood the basic differences between human and dragon psyche more than maybe any other pairing of dragon and lord, due to their unique years of growing up together, and though he looked at events – past, present, and future – much differently than Merlin did, still he appreciated the emotions that came to Merlin's heart, though not his own.

_You mentioned troubling visions of the future, brother, the last time we spoke, _Aithusa said. _Am I right to sense that these have bearing upon your situation?_

_Yes,_ Merlin answered, showing for the first time the vision that he'd seen in the crystal of Neahtid, alone by the campfire with Arthur in unwitting slumber at his feet, and Mordred's lifeblood not fully washed from his hands.

He'd seen a girl in a thin white undergarment, knees drawn up and hidden like encircling arms and lowered face, by a tumble of dark hair, seated on the floor of a barred cage, one pace square. In the vision, she'd lifted her head and her eyes had sparked… Freya, captured in Halig's cage. Impossible to leave to her fate, and yet unquestionably it had led to the circumstances of the second vision.

He'd seen himself, chained to a tilted slab, half-naked and writhing in agonized response to some unseen stimulus, his head turning as a figure stepped next to the slab… Instead of an enemy inflicting torture for information or any other gain that he couldn't help assuming, the block and the chains had saved him, the first night of the curse. A position he'd accepted willingly, and thus the vision of pain and fear was reinterpreted.

The third he kept to himself. Arthur lived, killed neither by the assassin, nor the slavers sent by the witch, nor yet by Merlin himself. He had not had to give up his life, as Mordred had, to prevent Arthur's death at his own hand. Yet, he had seen Morgana crowned queen. And looking no older than he'd seen her last, before she'd left for the Isle. Surely it would be soon. Months only, from the viewing, til the first had come to pass – then days, between the first and second.

He shivered involuntarily, and felt the warmth of companionship and caring seep into him, take hold of his hand.

_What do you need from me?_ Aithusa sent.

Merlin considered, a little disappointed in himself that he hadn't done this yet, the problem from a dragon's point of view. _Have you flown near the coast this month? _he asked. _Have you witnessed anything of note in connection with the priestesses' isle?_

_There were boats, and horses,_ Aithusa answered after a moment. _Five days ago._

_Coming or going?_ Merlin asked.

Aithusa answered with a swift sharing of what he'd seen, flying high and fast. Boats and horses, on the shore where once they'd landed before separating, Merlin to float to the isle alone and beg Nimueh to take his life in Arthur's place. He felt Aithusa's sense of magic tainted and twisted somehow, present on the shore, understood the dragon's repugnance. Impossible to tell, though, whether a party was arriving to visit the isle, or departing from it.

Five days ago Merlin had taken to the forest outside Lionys, ensuring Arthur's safety from a paid assassin who sought to take advantage of the prince's vulnerability. Who had deliberately separated Merlin from Arthur. And who had refused to surrender or earn clemency by revealing his employer.

He scrutinized the moments that Aithusa had witnessed, and judged the time to be just past dawn. Before Thomas or Mary Collins' death, before the curse. But after Thomas' first attempt in the street.

And what the hell did that mean?

_Anything else?_ he asked the dragon.

Aithusa's answer was in the negative. _I fly to Dinas Emrys, Merlin_, he added. _I wait upon your call._

_Thank you. _

Merlin sighed, shifting his position against the tree trunk to rub his forehead with his hand, awareness of Freya's presence blossoming in a moment. She the compassion that had taken his hand, his instincts trusting her even as the focus of his attention was far away. Her body the warm weight against his side, unobtrusive but comforting. Her fingers twined in his like they belonged there; he looked down at her, looking away from him into the growing darkness by the tilt of her head, her expression lost to him as their backs were to the campfire as the only source of light, but her sense was quiet contentment. Over their shoulders he saw Arthur, re-entering the circle of light and company, his head lifting to answer some comment with a quip of his own, and the ripples of responsive laughter reached Merlin.

He was glad for each of those who traveled with them from Lionys. Their situation hadn't changed, but if it had been he and Arthur and Leon alone, the journey would have been tense and wary, grim and rushed. And yet…

Merlin remembered kissing Freya on her rooftop, so unintended he'd surprised himself as much as her, he thought. She hadn't acted offended, had still agreed to come to Camelot – for the sake of meeting Gaius and finding new herbs and plants, though.

"I'm afraid it would have been better for you to have stayed in Lionys," he spoke quietly down to Freya.

For a moment she didn't respond, then she straightened away from him, without letting go of his hand. "I didn't figure you for a man who changed his mind often," she remarked.

"I don't," he said, "I don't think. I'm not. I just mean, when I said you should come with Gwaine and meet Gaius and I'd show you around Camelot's lands, I wasn't thinking clearly of the consequences of Arthur's return."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, remembering the last time Arthur's life had been threatened, an assassin sent into the heart of Camelot itself, gaining the citadel, waiting in Arthur's room… "Uther is going to panic," he said slowly, "very deliberately and very determinedly. That always results in restrictions, for Arthur as well as everyone else, and double the work for the knights and the guards. I honestly don't know if I'm going to be allowed any time to spend with you."

She hummed thoughtfully, turning so she could bring her other hand to his, toying absently with his fingers in the near-dark. "Gwaine means to stay, I think, until Arthur's satisfied he's in no further danger."

Merlin snorted. "Do you know how _long_ that might be?" he said, making the question into a joke.

"Gwen means to have her two weeks," Freya continued. "If the king keeps you busy and Arthur keeps Gwaine busy, I don't think Gwen will mind too much if I take the position of her maid, while she's in Camelot. We can be company for each other and learn our way around with each other, and even if I have to explore the wood on my own for a time…"

He smiled, though probably she couldn't see it, anymore, and reached to brush his fingertips over her hair, tucking a few strands loose from her braid behind her ear. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For being understanding."


	16. A Smuggler's Welcome

**Chapter 16: A Smuggler's Welcome**

Almost sunrise. And today they would be in Camelot.

Merlin had come upon a tree a stone's hard throw north of camp that was simply waiting to be climbed, and couldn't resist, as the rest of the party - except for Lancelot on the last watch – were still asleep.

He shivered in his shirtsleeves as a breeze rustled through the early-spring growth of foliage, high and cool before the sun's warmth breached the day. And… a hint of woodsmoke. So faint he could easily convince himself he imagined it, but the movement of the air was toward the camp behind him, and he didn't think anyone was stirring it up in preparation for breakfast yet, anyway.

He leaned forward in his perch, one hand wrapped around the trunk of the tree, slender at that height, and _looked_. Through the foliage, past other trunks, his mind's eye skimming through the underbrush… there. Another camp.

Dawn was several minutes away. And there was something incongruous about the camp; he kept the focus of his magically-enhanced sight to study the layout. It was a fighting-man's arrangement, he recognized; there were differences between the way the knights set up camp and the way the druids did, subtle but there if you knew what to look for.

There were no distinguishing banners or sigils, but there was a wagon with a curved roof. No bandits traveled with a wagon. _A merchant, perhaps_, he told himself. But a small part of his mind that was a mix of insatiable curiosity and irrepressible caution said, _so far from the road, and with every effort made to stay hidden?_ They'd made cold camp – not a hint of a firepit. And they were right in the path of Arthur's party, heading for Camelot.

Merlin straightened and took a deep breath as sunlight and magic poured over the land, a new day. New life, new chances, new choices. The skein of destiny, knotted so delicately around such small and seemingly insignificant details.

No one in Camelot could expect their return so soon; no official messenger had been sent from Lionys. But whoever had paid the Collins' family to kill Arthur – or him, or both – presumably had some way of communicating with them, some warning now that their plan had failed. _Now what?_ Merlin asked himself, descending the tree, branch to branch, stepping down or lowering himself, feeling the scabs on his shoulder-blades pull a bit.

Now, caution.

He snagged his jacket from the base of the tree and loped back to camp. His footfalls near-silent, but Lancelot had seen him go, and was looking for his return. The captain of the Lionys guard caught a hint of his suspicion from his gait or his expression, and spoke down to one side. Arthur appeared as Merlin approached, in rumpled shirtsleeves from his bedroll and rubbing one eye, but alert enough to respond to Lancelot's notice.

"Another camp," Merlin told the two of them. "Two hundred yards roughly north-northwest. Not knights, not merchants, not druids. Also, I smelled smoke, but they didn't have a fire."

"We should take a closer look," Arthur said, a statement that was not quite a question but invited their input anyway.

Lancelot offered none, ready to perform any service Arthur deemed necessary. Merlin said, "I'd like to. Just because…"

"You've got a funny feeling," Arthur groused, and glanced around. Merlin could fairly see him thinking, the other men moving, waking, rising. Perhaps they could be mounted and ready in a handful of minutes and ride without breakfast, but there were the two girls to think of, and the prince was responsible for their comfort as well as their safety.

"I'll go with him," Lancelot said. Arthur glanced at Merlin, and he nodded acceptance.

"Half an hour, and we'll move out," Arthur said to Merlin.

"Another quarter, and you'll reach where they are now," Merlin answered; Arthur nodded. "Save us some breakfast?" Merlin added with a grin, yanking his jacket on as Lancelot checked his armor and weapon.

"For Lancelot maybe," Arthur returned.

Lancelot gave Merlin a private smile. "I'll share," he promised, as Merlin turned to jog away from camp again.

Lancelot was almost as quiet as Arthur, who was almost as quiet as Leon, moving through the forest, behind Merlin who'd seen the campsite. Merlin stopped at a short distance, where they could see the site clearly and easily; they had not yet been noticed themselves. He leaned out from behind the tree for a quick search – two, no three guards, but all on the side toward the road and the city of Camelot. He looked down at Lancelot crouching behind a shrub at the base of the tree, saw his own conclusions move across the knight's face, before Lancelot met his eyes with a similar look of troubled curiosity.

It wouldn't be long before Arthur arrived with the rest of their party. Probably Merlin and Lancelot could direct them around this group without any need for contact, but the question remained, who were they?

Lancelot leaned forward, then glanced up at Merlin and mouthed, _The wagon_. Merlin looked out again – he was right, there was a fourth man by the wagon, and it looked to Merlin as if he guarded it from all others, even his companions. Odd. And probably the key to the group's identity. If there was a way of getting a closer look –

Something brushed the back of his jacket, up near his off shoulder and he turned without alarm – to see a pair of wide mischievous eyes as bright as the point of the blade now resting against his chest. He looked past it to the woman wielding it confidently, though not – exactly – threateningly.

She wore her blonde hair in a braid over her shoulder, a dark vest over gray trousers without a shirt beneath it, leaving arms, shoulders, and neck bare, showing a necklace that might have been expensive. Her forearms were protected by leather bracers that came down over her hands and fastened around her thumbs.

"Hello," she said, with sly insouciance.

Beside him, he sensed Lancelot flinch in reaction, and was glad the knight chose to stand slowly, rather than leap into action. The woman jerked her head to indicate they should precede her into camp, without saying a word or losing that small arch smile.

Merlin made a choice, and could only hope that Lancelot would trust him enough to do as he did. He moved out from behind the tree, and started toward the center of the camp, stopping mere feet from the back of the wagon.

The men of the camp were all awake, in various stages of readying themselves for the day; they seemed to take the appearance of two strangers in stride. No one reacted with anything more than wary acknowledgement, but by the time they reached the guard on the wagon, the others had taken casual position behind them, and they were surrounded. It made Lancelot uneasy, Merlin knew from the way the other shifted his weight and his focus, but at least he kept his sword sheathed.

Merlin concentrated on the guard, a tall lean man with short blonde hair that sprung from his head in every direction in a disheveled look that disguised the obvious maturity of his lined face almost entirely. He wore a blue shirt beneath a tan knee-length jacket, and was sharpening his knife casually as he leaned against his wagon, a small locked cask under his elbow. The woman moved around Merlin toward him, presumably the leader of this band of whoever they were.

"I found them lurking in the woods," she told him, her voice matching her expression. Amusement rather than offense, excitement rather than fear when faced with the unexpected. She dropped her sword back into the sheath at her hip with an easy, practiced grace.

The blonde man looked them over, almost immediately dismissing Merlin to study Lancelot – the chainmail, the sword, the dark green tunic with the Lionys symbol of a rampant lion picked out in silver thread. "See anything interesting?" he asked.

"No," Merlin answered, immediately and fearlessly.

The leader reacted nearly instantaneously, throwing the knife in his hand at – past – Merlin to thud into the trunk of a tree three feet behind him. Merlin twitched, just enough to bring himself out of harm's way. Perhaps if he wasn't so used to this as Arthur's preferred pass-time when he was upset or irritated or frustrated, perhaps if all that time on the training field with the prince's blades and targets hadn't taught him to recognize the man's grip on the hilt, anticipate the weapon's path, it might have been a more intimidating choice of action from the blonde man.

Lancelot flinched also, but that was all. Maybe he was wondering why Merlin had not yet used magic to aid an escape, or maybe the knight had caught onto his plan, but he remained quiet and calm.

And if the lean blonde man was disappointed at their lack of reaction, he didn't show it. "You'll want to be careful," he told them. "Who are you?"

Merlin shrugged. "Travelers."

"You're a knight of Lionys," the man observed, angling his body toward the woman as she did with him, while they both kept their eyes on Merlin and Lancelot.

"I am," Lancelot said, squaring himself almost unconsciously, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"A long way from home," the man observed, his eyes flicking over his men gathered behind Merlin and Lancelot, the trees and underbrush of the forest behind _them_. "And on foot…"

"His horse stepped in a rabbit hole and broke its leg, we had to put it down," Merlin lied glibly. "Maybe we could travel with you for a ways, where are you heading?"

"And what about your horse?" the lean man asked, instead of answering Merlin's probe for information.

Merlin grimaced. "I'm his servant, I don't rate a horse as long as I've got two good legs, please just a ways, maybe toward Camelot?" The couple exchanged a look. Something to hide – to guard – that they both knew about, and weren't eager to be near Camelot. "And maybe some breakfast?" Merlin added, moving closer. "We haven't eaten yet this morning…"

The attention of both man and woman, as well as Lancelot, shifted to the couple of men occupied in distributing rations. Merlin glanced a wordless spell at the lock on the lid of the cask, snapping a twig deliberately with his boot as he stepped forward, to cover the click of the lock opening. The lid lifted, the cask emitted a tantalizing and pungent odor… Only for a moment, and the man slammed the lid back down, his face expressionless as his fingers brushed the lock.

"That's myrrh," Merlin said, candid in a momentary surprise. Not gold, as he would have guessed.

"Is it," the man said. The woman looked at him, her sarcastic self-assurance just a bit stiff.

"I recognize the smell," Merlin said, and realization caught up to recognition, coalescing into relief. The almost-military feel of the camp, the stealth, the way the men were dressed, the cart, even the presence of a woman all explained. Not the deliberate threat to Arthur that he feared. "You're smugglers."

The man twisted to shove the cask further into the wagon. The woman arched an eyebrow at them and said in a calm, melodic voice, "We prefer to think of it as free trade."

Merlin couldn't help thinking that both of them would be just as irreverent and unrepentant explaining their point of view to Uther himself – and couldn't help liking them for it, too. "It's forbidden by edict of the king," he reminded them, smiling in spite of himself. "If you're caught you could be killed."

"Caught? Tristan and Isolde?" the man scoffed, and the woman smirked fondly at him. "I don't think so. Our timing is impeccable – and we're too quick and too smart for the half-wit king in Camelot."

"What do you mean, half-wit?" Lancelot asked.

Merlin said, "Have you smelled woodsmoke this morning?"

A bellow sounded from the forest several yards behind the wagon. "Hello, the camp! Put down your weapons and surrender for questioning!"

Merlin was vaguely aware that the hail had the opposite effect of its intention, the smugglers to a man baring their blades. Lancelot looked at Merlin, and didn't draw his. Tristan and Isolde, the couple in charge of this band of lawbreakers, both wheeled and crouched in the cover of the wagon.

"And who might you be," Tristan shouted back, "so bold, so early in the morning?"

"One with Pendragon authority," came the returned call, arrogant and impatient. It came to Merlin that he knew that voice. One of the knights, maybe? Then he and Lancelot did not want to be caught in the middle of this; Lancelot should not need to defend himself from a Camelot patrol, nor find himself forced to aid them, either. "It matters little, you are surrounded."

An all-encompassing rustle of leaves and branches and brush. Merlin had marked the positions of several, but he was surprised at the number of men who stepped out, half armed with crossbows. None wore Camelot red. None wore a uniform style, cut, or color of clothing at all. _Thieves or rivals_, he thought first, lying about Pendragon authority. Then the owner of the voice urged his mount out from cover, and from his bearing Merlin believed his claim, and thought then, _mercenaries_.

The man was fifty if he was a day, dark hair slicked back, face heavy and petulant. He was dressed all in black, vest over shirt over trousers and boots, more than one silver ornament decorating his chest. Merlin had seen him once, fleetingly, at a banquet that had been so ordinary it was boring. Its purpose dual – to bid Arthur farewell on his months-long trip, and to greet the king's brother-in-law. Arthur's uncle, Agravaine de Bois.

With mercenaries?

Never in Merlin's memory had Uther hired common fighting men, relying on his own sworn knights and troops. What was happening in Camelot? They hadn't been gone quite a fortnight, yet.

Agravaine guided his mount sideways to better see Tristan, and Merlin a few paces behind the smuggler, could see the lord better also. Him, and the companion at his side.

Time seemed to stop. In his mind, Merlin went almost two years into the past, seeing a stained glass window shatter, a motionless suit of armor on the dark training field, encircled by a ring of uselessly charred grass, absorbing a young knight's one well-aimed blow to rally without apparent injury and kill the defender of Camelot.

Tristan de Bois, next to his brother. Wraith. No, it couldn't be – it had been defeated, the dark magic that had raised it…

The dark magic that had raised it… emanating from the figure that loomed on horseback, half a head taller than Agravaine. Cloaked, gloved… masked.

Merlin took a step back, his right hand lifting almost of its own accord, wondering for a single instant if he'd gone mad, and was seeing something that wasn't there.

But that movement was enough to draw Agravaine's attention, mere seconds after he'd threatened Tristan, the lean smuggler not-quite between them. Merlin saw recognition on the lord's face, saw the syllables of his own name as Agravaine uttered them. But the look that followed - pure fear and greed – was so far outside the emotion of a normal reaction for the two of them in this situation, Merlin felt his understood reality slip sideways.

Evil focused on him very nearly _audibly_, and the black rider spurred his mount forward, heedless of the obstacles separating him from Merlin, drawing a massive sword with the dull ring of rusted metal. In nearly the same instant, Agravaine whirled his arm in a forward motion, shouting to his men, "Kill them all!"

Two arrows shot by smugglers thudded into the black rider's chest, with absolutely no effect.

Tristan yanked Isolde out of the horse's way with his left hand, but not quickly enough; the rider's bared blade sliced negligently across her upper arm. Tristan's right hand brought his sword up in a reflexive strike across the rider's hip and thigh – the tattered black cloak tore, and the knight took no notice.

Merlin filled his lungs, bending backward to duck a decapitating blow as the horse thundered past him – blindly using his magic to knock Lancelot clear of the area – and hollered as he straightened, "Run! He cannot be killed!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur guided the diminished party northwest, as Merlin had indicated, on foot and leading his mount. The other four men boxed Gwen and Freya in the center, while the cart, more noisy and awkward, brought up the rear.

He could fight on horseback; it had been part of his training. But he had never felt a cavalryman the way Leon would always be a scout, he preferred the balance of his own two feet, always. And with only Merlin's concern about the other group to go on, he wanted to be ready to fight.

The rest of the group was silent and alert. He'd explained nothing beyond Merlin and Lancelot scouting ahead, but Leon probably guessed a good bit of the situation, and neither Gwaine nor Percival was unobservant. The others clearly sensed that something was amiss; Arthur could only hope that their apprehension came to nothing.

A rustle sounded ahead; he froze, and a flight of sparrows fluttered from cover for the open sky. He'd half-expected one or the other of the two to have met them by now – _it was nothing, we're clear_, or _hold here for now_, or _cut around to the left or right to avoid unnecessary confrontation._

Arthur sighted a man, creeping afoot slantwise across their approach maybe ten yards distant, almost out of sight, his attention so focused further beyond that he didn't notice them. He wore no uniform, though he carried a crossbow, and by his movements was clearly stalking something. Or someone. Another followed him, then another, moving sideways; Arthur thought, _flanking maneuver._

What was going on, and where the hell were Merlin and Lancelot? Two choices – stay and wait, or continue on to see for himself.

Dropping his horse's reins – well-trained itself, it would stand unless seriously frightened off – he turned to give the four men a series of signals, hoping the Lionys knights could gather the gist. _Gwaine and Elyan, remain_. He figured they could protect the cart the best, and their sisters also. _Leon and Percival - follow me_.

He received four nods, and turned to move forward stealthily, with a feeling of relief. It would have been entirely within the rights of the men of Lionys to stay with the de Gransses in a place of better safety, but none of them had so much as hesitated at his leadership. It made for a tight fighting unit, and he appreciated the value of that.

Leon came up silently on his right, and Percival on his left was very quiet for a big man in the woods. Carefully, carefully, they eased toward the row of five men – no, six, the line curved to the east – who were themselves creeping up on something or someone as yet unseen… Arthur glimpsed the curved top of a wagon through the trees and crouched a little lower, glancing down to place his boots silently and deliberately.

And no sign of his two missing men.

He heard a voice call out, and the line of men in ambush in front of them tightened with ready tension. Another voice answered, and when the first voice shouted back, it occurred to Arthur that he should recognize it, but it came from another quarter of the forest, away to the west. He quickened his progress, seeing the men – bandits, maybe? – focused so entirely forward that none of them had any awareness to their rear.

The first voice bellowed a command that Arthur was sure contained the word _kill_, and the men surged forward, hollering and brandishing their weapon of choice, sword or crossbow.

Arthur held back.

This was Camelot, his land. His laws, his people. But he knew nothing of the group being attacked, and they were only three. Their responsibilities were elsewhere. Without knowing who was fighting whom, it was foolhardy to-

Someone roared, "_Run_!" And something else that was unintelligible at that distance. The words, but not the voice.

Merlin. Which meant, most likely, that Lancelot was with him. In the middle of what was shaping up to be a not insignificant battle.

…..*….. …..*…... …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The horse reared on its hind legs, as its rider attempted to pivot, to locate Merlin, who circled, trying to stay behind the horse. Two more arrows struck, into the knight's neck unseen below the mask, and into the arm that held his weapon aloft. He ignored both, as if the clearing was empty save for himself and Merlin.

He tripped as he dodged the wrong way, and the whistle of the sharp edge slicing air _very_ near his ear cut through the shuddering that filled them.

Under the horse's belly, he saw Lancelot just regaining his feet, by his expression intent on attacking the enemy that threatened Merlin. All around, Agravaine's mercenaries fought the smugglers in a chaos of violence. And he heard an unmistakable voice roar out, "_On me_!"

The taint of the magic enlivening the black rider was overwhelmingly oppressive to the magic that filled Merlin, the thought of the nightmare figure standing over any one of his companions – and especially Arthur – and the girls somewhere near – was unbearable. He had no guarantee that his magic would prove effective – wraith or not – and destruction might be wrought all around them in the attempt.

And then, part of him wanted to prove a suspicion.

He scrambled for the edge of the forest, dashing between fighters, throwing at least three men out of the way with a gesture, careless of whether they were smugglers or mercenaries.

The black rider and horse crashed through the underbrush behind him, a wordless voiceless menace that thundered with the blood in his ears, making it hard to think clearly. Perhaps if he ran far enough from the others, and was able to scale a tree, he'd have the time to try different spells in a more methodical fashion.

He twisted to aim a broken branch flying at the figure's hooded head – it bounced off the mask, tumbling unnoticed behind him. Back in the melee in camp, flashes of fiery arrows arced in more than one direction – he veered into a thicker tangle of underbrush, hoping to impede the rider's mount, at least – then flung two fireballs behind him in quick succession. The first the rider batted away with his sword, the second splashed harmlessly on his chest with a crackling blue corona.

It was a helpless feeling, as when he and Arthur and the hunting party of knights had fled through the misty woods from the Questing Beast. It was not often that his magic had no effect.

He came to a shallow gully and skidded down, followed only moments later by the great black horse sailing over it. He turned and pelted down the relatively clear gully, hoping he didn't break an ankle as he threw all manner of detritus from the forest floor – branches, leaves, stones – at the horse's legs, at the faces of both rider and mount. Twice he choked out, "_Gehaeftan_!" to tie the branches and brambles together.

A temporary delay, only.

The going became rougher, angling farther away from the others, the gully choked with larger rocks that had tumbled down steeper sides… and farther apart. Merlin stopped and shoved his hand at his relentless pursuer, commanding, "_Ic the withdrif_!" with as much strength as he could muster.

The horse squealed, falling back, taking the rider down in a swirl of black cloak. Merlin took his chance and scrambled back up the side of the gully, opposite the rider and toward his companions.

He turned at the top, gulping for breath, as the black knight appeared again, on foot and sword in hand. Merlin tensed, but guessed that though the other was protected by dark magic, he had none at his command. The mask obscured the face entirely, but Merlin was sure the knight was staring at him with an intensity that was deafening. The shafts that protruded from his chest were charred and smoldering; the figure's silence was eerie… but to hear him speak would be worse.

The mask tipped downward and the knight began to descend in the gully, clearly still determined to chase Merlin down. To capture or kill? he'd rather not find out.

"_Gewican ge stanas_," he gasped, yanking half the hillside out from under the figure, sending it tumbling down the gully. Another burst of magic snatched the weapon from a distracted hand, spinning it out of sight. Merlin braced himself, reaching out both of his hands to call upon the earth, very nearly as he had with the stones of Mary's house, to tumble, to fall, to pile over the black knight. The ground trembled beneath his feet and he almost lost his balance in the intensity of the outpouring of his strength.

Dust settled. The ancient magic throbbed malevolently beneath the pile, mocking him. Delayed, not destroyed. He shivered.

Then Merlin heard someone shout his name, calling to locate him, urgent but not panicked. It wasn't Arthur. He turned and jogged at a steady swift pace, back toward the smugglers' encampment.

Twice he saw riders, mercenaries or smugglers, intent on retreat or escape or pursuit, he hadn't the energy for curiosity, but merely froze, or crouched to hide himself from notice. Through the trees he could see two great blazes, about a stone's throw apart – one the smuggler's wagon, and the other, he suspected with a tired sigh, the cart with the supplies of his own party.

Percival strode past the edge of the clearing; he cupped his hands to bellow again, and Merlin let out a whistle and a wave. Percival waved back, letting his hands drop as he continued forward to intercept him. Merlin reached out to extinguish the fires, but he feared it was too late to salvage either vehicle.

The biggest knight called out as he got closer, "Did you kill him?" Percival's eyes searched the forest briefly behind Merlin, but probably guessed that there was no imminent danger.

"I lost him," Merlin replied, out of breath. "For now."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur advanced in a controlled rush. Merlin was fully capable of defending himself and Lancelot too, but there were a lot of men fighting – the sorcerer couldn't see in every direction at once. And if someone like Merlin was advising others to run…

One of the ambushers turned, raising his blade and his eyebrows in astonishment – fear – Arthur cut him down and was past him before he hit the ground. Another aimed a crossbow, several yards ahead and inside a small clearing; Arthur dodged sideways and came out on the other side of a tree, ducking the swing of a sword on his right – Leon would take care of that – and driving right for the crossbowman. Who judged correctly that he could not reload before Arthur reached him, and swung the weapon like a club.

Arthur avoided it easily, plunging his sword into the man – and gaining a moment of free breath to give an assessing glance about him.

Impossible to tell friend from foe. Lancelot was scrambling up from the ground just in front of Leon, dispatching an attacker. Beside the wagon, a woman with a blonde braid with slumped on the ground, a lean man in a brown coat crouched over her in defense or aid.

And in the middle of the clearing, a huge black-cloaked knight on horseback aimed a killing slice downward at a man on his other side. Arthur saw enough of the intended victim behind the horse to recognize Merlin immediately.  
"On me!" he shouted, trusting that he'd have three knights to position a small formation, enough to advance on the horseman – why wasn't Merlin using magic? – and the young sorcerer spun and took off running, past other fighters, into the forest, the enormous rider in pursuit.

Well. At least he'd be clear of the fray. Free to use uninhibited magic, and against only one enemy.

A rush of heated air and the crackle of flames buffeted him from the side, as the wagon caught fire. The lean man yanked the woman off the ground and away from it; she drew a sword from her belt awkwardly and took a stance at his back.

Lancelot, Leon, and Percival had indeed taken a defensive formation behind him, each of them facing a different direction, making no effort to seek engagement but each protecting the others from attack. It so happened that Arthur found himself mostly facing the paired man and woman, and they at least seemed to know who their enemies were.

Another man rushed Arthur with raised sword, screaming a challenge. He stepped to meet him, countering the attack smoothly, then another, finally slicing the man's sword arm clear to the bone. He stepped back, sword at the ready, to let the injured enemy run, and saw that the lean man in the long coat had been drawn some paces from his female companion, in the confusion of fighting.

And she faced a muscular man who gave her a vicious sneer.

She wasn't half-bad, for a woman, but blood already ran down her bare arm, and her opponent mercilessly strong. She parried but clumsily, and he smashed his hilt into the side of her head, knocking her sprawling. As he raised his sword for the killing blow, Arthur moved from the protection of the knights, leaping forward to drive his blade through the man's back.

As he fell, the lean man turned from his own final stroke, his expression of triumph turning to horror at the sight of the woman motionless on the ground. He dropped his weapon and rushed to bend over her; Leon and Percival passed Arthur to place both strangers within their protection. Fighting continued at the far end of the clearing, but for the moment there was no one threatening.

"We had a deal," the lean man said, brushing a strand of hair from the woman's face. She blinked up at him and smiled as she recognized him, a look so full of love and only because he was near that Arthur's heart twinged in envy. "Partners for life, remember?"

The woman reached up to touch his lined face in turn, seemingly content to remain resting in his arms. "When have I not kept my promises?" she said softly.

_Thud_.

Arthur's knee buckled, and he cursed as he spun around, trying to simultaneously adjust his weight to the other leg so he wouldn't fall, and locate the source of the attack. Someone was beside him with a rush so sudden his precarious balance was lost, and he snatched at a sleeve with his free hand as the man leaned into the throw of his own weapon.

Across the clearing a man dropped, bow in hand and knife in his chest; he seemed to be the last enemy. Gwaine swung his dark hair out of his face to give Arthur a devilish grin, and Arthur steadied himself with a hand on the swordsman's shoulder as the back of his left thigh throbbed, hot and painful.

A few horses were down, he noticed, the rest stampeded or stolen; more men dead, the wagon afire, and – Gwaine. Arthur pivoted the other direction to see Elyan and Gwen entering the campsite, Freya between them. Gwen had a look of determination on her face and a sword in her hand, but its edge was unbloodied. Thirty yards behind them, another bonfire crackled; he hoped it wasn't the cart of their supplies, but feared it was.

"Gwaine," said the lean man still kneeling on the ground. "Why am I not surprised?"

Arthur felt Gwaine's chuckle. "Tristan," the dark-haired commoner returned, as Leon sheathed his sword and approached. "Good to see you too. Still running on the shady side of the law?"

"It's the profitable side," the other answered.

"An arrow, sire." A soft gasp sounded by his other elbow; he looked down into Guinevere's startled brown eyes, as she wrapped her fingers around his forearm, before glancing over his shoulder at his senior knight. Leon met his eyes from an inspection of the wound in his leg. "Entry wound only, and it missed the bone. Not too bad."

But bloody inconvenient. "Yank it," he advised. Gwaine shifted to offer his hand for a grip, a sympathetic grimace on his face. Percival was already cutting cloth for bandaging material from one of the bodies nearby.

"On three," Leon said, bracing himself. Arthur settled all his weight onto his right leg, leaning slightly toward Gwaine, feeling Gwen press warm into his side, careful of the blade he hadn't yet returned to his belt. "One, two -" Pain flared hotly through his leg, twisting his stomach, and he couldn't help a grunt in reaction.

"One of these days," he spoke evenly with an effort, but through his teeth. "You're going to have to take me by surprise and actually make it to three, Leon."

He could feel blood sliding down the back of his knee, and there was more on Leon's hands; Percival handed a length of faded tan material to him. Leon passed the makeshift bandage around Arthur's leg and knotted it tightly. It felt like being stabbed again with a hot blade, but he was able to remain standing. Gwen was biting her lip with a worried frown as if she remembered the hot agony of such a wound. "Lancelot," Arthur said, to distract her from her worry for him. Gwaine helped him transfer his hand to his shoulder, and stood still as Arthur's support, as Lancelot moved forward. "What the hell happened here?"

"These smugglers," Lancelot answered. He gestured to the burning wagon, some several of the bodies, the man Gwaine had called Tristan helping the woman to sit up on her own; Freya went to offer what help she could. Arthur gave the commoner a stern look in reprimand for the quality of his friendships; Gwaine answered with an unrepentant grin and shrug. "And these, evidently, troops of Camelot." There was something of a question in his voice.

Leon said, "The hell they are."

Arthur gave the fallen men a closer look – not a single one in chainmail or crimson. "Impossible," he said.

"It's what they claimed," Lancelot replied, unoffended.

"Mercenaries," Gwaine guessed.

"My father would never hire them," Arthur stated with certainty.

"Your father?" Tristan said from the ground, with a challenge in his voice.

Arthur ignored the question. "We need to keep moving. Whoever they were, they'll be coming back." The bodies on the ground represented maybe a third of those who'd been fighting; the rest had retreated or escaped, but some would return to pick over the spoils of battle, and he had no interest in fighting again. "Our horses?" He swung around to direct his gaze over Gwen's head to her brother.

"The cart's a total loss," Elyan said, "and your driver was killed; I'm sorry. We held five of the horses." He turned to point, back toward the second blazing bonfire.

Arthur winced, but nodded, and tried his weight on his injured leg. It hurt, but he could make it support him. "Lancelot, Leon, try to round up horses enough for all of us."

"Tristan and Isolde too?" Gwaine asked, looking past Arthur to the couple on the ground.

The lean man still kneeling on the ground gave a dirty look which encompassed them all. "Just go. There's nothing stopping you."

"Come with us," Gwaine suggested.

"_I'm_ choosy about the company I keep, Gwaine," Tristan shot back. "Noblemen? Surely you're joking."

"Some of us can't afford to be choosy, although," Gwaine indicated the burning wreck of the wagon, "I think you're one of them, now. And _these_ –" he gave Arthur an impish look – "aren't so bad."

From the ground, the woman spoke. "He saved my life, Tristan." She looked past her partner to Arthur. "Thank you."

He nodded a polite acknowledgement of her gratitude – shady side of the law, he remembered Gwaine saying, and turned slightly. "Percival, see if you can't find Merlin?" Beside the blonde smuggler woman, he saw Freya lift her head in sudden concern. The big knight, leading a captured mount across the clearing, saluted and passed the reins to Gwaine, loping back the way he'd come, bellowing Merlin's name.

"Merlin," Tristan said suddenly. "That skinny boy with the quick tongue? Merlin Emrys, the sorcerer?" Arthur was not the only one to give the smuggler a puzzled look, as Tristan rose to his feet. "Who are you?" His gray eyes were keen, wary. Probably he connected Merlin's name to Arthur's, and feared official reprisal for his illegal activities.

"My name is Arthur Pendragon," Arthur answered, inclined to consider the couple punished enough by the loss of their cargo, and skip any arrest or prosecution. He was supposed to be escorting guests that included a lady, he was tired, he was _sore_, dammit, and home was only a few hours away.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…. …..*…..

The lean man stared at the prince for a moment, then turned to Gwaine. "Is he a simpleton?" he demanded.

Arthur said, "I beg your pardon?" in a tone that had Gwen reaching to remove the hilt of the prince's sword from his hand, and slip hers into it instead.

"Gwaine, maybe you had better come with us," Tristan said, angling his body as if to defend the woman on the ground from Arthur, though she had only just finished thanking the prince for saving her life. "Do you have any idea of what you've gotten yourself into?"

"Yes, actually, I have," Gwaine answered, frowning. "What do you –"

The blaze of the ruined wagon was extinguished in a rush of swirling air and smoke, and Percival's voice interrupted them, "Did you kill him?"

Merlin's voice answered, "I lost him. For now."

Gwen turned at the same time as Arthur to see Merlin emerge from the forest next to Percival, looking tired and disheveled and out of breath. She watched the young sorcerer give each of them a quick look – making sure each was accounted for, and assessing injuries, Gwen guessed. His eyes lingered on the fabric wound about the prince's leg.

Arthur said, in a tone of mixed relief and impatience, "Merlin, where have you been?"

He responded with an impudent grin, evidently reassured that the prince's wound was not serious. "Were you worried about me?" Merlin reached for the waterskin that Elyan offered, and tipped it up, but only a few drops fell.

"I'll get more," Elyan said, glancing toward Arthur, but Merlin answered immediately.

"No, it's too dangerous."

Gwen felt Arthur's muscles tighten. "What happened?" the prince demanded.

Merlin's expression didn't change; he said mildly, "I'll tell you later."

"Merlin," Freya said, from where she knelt next to Isolde, and the young man's eyes went past Arthur and Gwen to the two women still on the ground.

He crossed the clearing, slipping past Arthur and Tristan both to join Freya. They watched him tip his head to see the wound on the blonde woman's upper arm as Freya moved a handful of cloth she'd been using to pad the injury, an angry gash still oozing blood. Merlin made a noise of sympathy that seemed to put the woman, at least, at her ease, though Tristan glared down at him. The young sorcerer – physician's apprentice, Gwen remembered – reached to place two fingers against her neck below the corner of her jaw, using his other hand to simultaneously position her head and thumb her eyelid open.

"Look toward the sun," he told her. After a pause, he tested her other eye in the same way, then said to the rest of them over his shoulder, "The injuries aren't bad, but she needs shelter and rest." He took the cloth from Freya's hand, turning and folding it to create an adequate bandage.

"I know a place only a couple of hours ride," Leon said to Arthur, coming up with the reins of two more mounts in his hand. Gwen squeezed Arthur's hand and felt a pressure in response; Merlin had done such a nice job healing her own arrow-wound, she hoped he'd do the same for the prince.

"We're not going anywhere with you," Tristan declared firmly.

Merlin twisted in his crouch to squint up at the smuggler, showing surprise. "Why not?" he asked. "He's not about to arrest you, you know."

"You're Merlin Emrys?" the smuggler said. Merlin nodded a confused affirmative. "And this is…" Tristan pointed to Arthur.

"That's Prince Arthur of Camelot," Merlin said.

"Of course it is." Tristan nodded exaggeratedly. "And… that's why we'll be on our own way."

"Why?" Gwaine said.

"Because Prince Arthur of Camelot is dead," Tristan replied.

**A/N: I forgot to say before, thanks to those who left reviews while I was MIA from the Merlin 'verse. Glad you all liked the first half of the story, and stuck around to read the rest!**

**Also, some dialogue from eps.4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone".**

LCT: I did enjoy doing Freya and Gwen's pov, but I did rather feel like I was skimping on some of the action, simply because the two girls weren't there/involved. And I feel like Merlin and Arthur's povs are the clear favorites for this site… so I haven't given up the girls', just added the boys'… and more questions instead of answers, I'm afraid. Sorry. (*grins unrepentantly*)


	17. Shelter First

**Chapter 17: Shelter First**

_ "Prince Arthur of Camelot is dead," Tristan said._

Gwen didn't understand. Although it reassured her that she was not the only one. Merlin pushed to his feet, as Arthur gave a derisive snort.

Lancelot said to Tristan calmly, "How and when?"

"About week ago, he was assassinated in the province of Lionys." Tristan was looking at the silver-lion insignia on Lancelot's dark-green tunic, matching the one on Percival's, and Elyan's.

Arthur said, "No, I-"

Lancelot laid a hand on Arthur's arm, upward from Gwen's hand. "How do you know this?" he said to the smuggler.

The tall lean man glanced warily at Arthur, and then at Merlin – both so intent that they unsettled even Gwen, and she shifted a few more inches behind the prince's right arm. "The announcement was made public four days ago," Tristan said.

"My father wouldn't do that," Arthur said, with an odd frown. He turned to Leon as if for corroboration. "Not without proof; not without a body, at the very least."

Silence. The acrid smell of smoke and blood and battle turned Gwen's stomach, and she wanted very strongly to leave the clearing. The men were all looking at each other with varying expressions, stunned to thoughtful.

"Rumor is, Uther was broken by his son's death." Gwen noticed that Tristan's demeanor had softened somewhat from arrogant assurance, but resisted even a tentative sympathy. "Lord Agravaine issued the proclamation."

Arthur closed his eyes as his head dropped slightly; she gripped his hand more firmly, anxious to comfort. Of course he was fine and his father had no cause to grieve, but she imagined her own father receiving news of Elyan's death, and cringed.

"Oh, _hells_," Merlin gasped, so suddenly and with such pain in his voice that Gwen glanced instinctively to locate an injury. "That means they'll be crowning the princess, won't they."

Arthur spun away from them to the mount Leon was still holding in readiness for him, dropping Gwen's hand. "I have to get to Camelot," he declared. "Leon and Gwaine, can you see these two to shelter? Lancelot, you can follow to the citadel at your own pace with your party. Merlin–"

One step from her, and the prince's injured leg wouldn't hold him – perhaps he'd forgotten about it, and moved too swiftly. Leon, Lancelot, and even Gwaine all reacted at once, reaching to catch and steady him, but Merlin was faster than any, ducking under Arthur's arm to take his weight.

Tristan watched them with a look of astonishment. "Don't, if you value your life," he said, shortly, as though giving a warning against his better judgment.

Arthur didn't turn, limping to the horse, but Merlin twisted under the prince's arm to see the smuggler. "Why not?" the sorcerer said.

"Because, " Tristan answered grimly, glancing down at the blonde-haired woman who was his companion, and receiving her nod of agreement, "you've a bounty on your head, Emrys, and any imposters are to be shot on sight."

Merlin startled them all when he began to laugh. Arthur, one hand on the saddle for support, pushed him to arms' length, gripping his shoulder.

"Hells," the sorcerer said breathlessly again, "as if one Arthur Pendragon wasn't bad enough!... imposters… Arthur, I'm sorry. It's because of me, isn't it, because they think I could cast an enchantment to make anyone look like you."

Gwen thought, maybe if Arthur went alone, without Merlin – but she didn't suppose that was any guarantee, either for Arthur's safety without his sorcerer, or that they in Camelot would believe Arthur was their departed prince, without any effect of magic. And Merlin probably wouldn't let him go alone, anyway.

"We should leave here, in any case," Leon said. "It's not safe for any of us, until we can prove you're alive, sire. You're injured – and she's injured –" he indicated Isolde with a respectful nod – "and our supplies are gone."

Arthur nodded, letting his arm drop away from Merlin. "Shelter first," he said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Two nights ago, Freya had listened with an uncomfortable pain in her heart as Merlin said to her, _it would have been better for you to have stayed_, sounding grave and sad in the dim twilight, where she couldn't read his expression, and his blue eyes were sparks of reflected firelight. Disappointment she'd felt keenly, but not surprise. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to say goodbye for good after only a few days, and a quick decision to leave, feeling that he still owed her somehow for helping to lift the curse, but a few days more might have made him reconsider.

Then he'd said, _if I'm going to be allowed any time to spend with you_, and she realized his concern was worry for her safety and happiness, not second-guessing a rash decision.

She shifted her weight atop the gray gelding's hindquarters, trying to pull her skirt further down her legs without letting go of Gwaine's waist completely.

Her brother looked back at her. "You all right?"

Freya hummed an affirmative. It was a quick glance, a softly-spoken query, then Gwaine's head was up again, scanning the forest for danger. Freya caught the idea that the brief battle between the smugglers and the mercenaries had left quite a few possible survivors lurking in the vicinity, though she at least hadn't seen anyone else for half of an hour, as they rode at a fast walk.

She leaned to look around Gwaine's broad shoulder. Just ahead of them was the lady Guinevere on her own mount, and ahead of her, brief glimpses of Prince Arthur and Sir Leon in the lead. She thought they exchanged a word of conversation occasionally, but wasn't sure. Lancelot and Elyan rode several yards beside them on the left, and Percival to the right. Behind them, Isolde rode tandem with Tristan. She wished, not for the first time, that she'd ended up sharing a ride with Merlin. But her question, _where's Merlin_, some time ago, had Gwaine responding, _behind us_. And she remembered how the druids had hidden their tracks and their trail, as a habit and a rule, whenever they moved camp; perhaps it was habit for Merlin as well.

Freya twisted as surreptitiously as she could to look over her shoulder. The female smuggler swayed ahead of Tristan on their shared mount, his arms encircling her as he held the reins, her body relaxed against him and her face turned into the side of his neck. She was a little surprised to see them still there; apart from the protection a larger group offered them, and the expectation of shelter offered by Leon, as well as medical care by Merlin, somehow Tristan blamed the loss of his men and his cart on Arthur – who he didn't believe was the prince – and evidently the lot of them were fugitives.

She didn't understand that part, actually.

"How can the king believe Arthur is dead?" she murmured at Gwaine's ear.

It was a moment before he responded. "Rumor, I guess," he said. "Neither Arthur nor Lord Lionel sent official messengers to Camelot. But you know that plenty of people saw Thomas attack Arthur in the street. And most of the palace servants probably knew about that hunting trip, and the banquet."

"Yes, but," Freya argued quietly, "Arthur wasn't even injured. I mean, not really. Who could have believed him dead, in Lionys, to bring a report back here, that they would believe?"

Gwaine made a noise that conveyed _I-don't-know_. "Well, if it's not honest misinformation, it's –" She watched the muscles of his jaw clench beneath dark stubble, and understood. Then it would be deliberate, somehow. Which meant that whoever had hired Thomas Collins – and Mary – had agents in Camelot as well. Influential agents.

She caught a quickened increase in the muffled sound of hooves behind them, and caught a hint of movement at the corner of her eye. She turned to see Merlin move up alongside of them on a sedate brown mare. He had a grim, mature set to his jaw, and his eyes seemed to watch something none of the rest of them could see. His thoughts troubled him, she thought, and that troubled her.

Elyan nudged his mount closer to say to the young sorcerer, "How much longer can he keep going like this?" nodding ahead of them, presumably to the prince.

Merlin said absently, "I don't know."

Elyan transferred his gaze from Merlin to Gwaine, and though she couldn't tell what either of them was thinking, or had communicated silently, her brother said with forced cheer, "Who'd you make mad enough in Camelot, then, mate, to get a bounty on your head?"

Merlin flashed a grin - but not a reply, though Gwaine didn't seem to need one – which softened as he looked at her. "You're all right?" he said, and her brother took no offense at the question.

She nodded. The fighting had been sudden and brief, where they were, confusing rather than frightening. The cart had caught fire, and she didn't see the driver, and Gwen had a sword in her hand… and the rest of it had just been the back of Gwaine's shirt until they entered the clearing.

"I saw him, Gwaine," Merlin added softly, facing forward again. "Arthur's uncle."

"Agravaine?" Gwaine said, and Merlin nodded.

"He was there. He was commanding the mercenaries. First I thought – because they were smugglers, but then…" A shadow crossed his face, and he fell silent for a moment. "It was because he saw me, and recognized me, that he ordered the attack, but… I can't really believe that anyone would think I would react to Arthur's death by trying to put an imposter in his place."

Freya couldn't help wondering, how Merlin _would_ react to Arthur's death.

"It's kind of a leap, without any evidence to support it," Gwaine agreed. "It's also, if you'll pardon my saying so, an easy way to discredit you both. And make it the goal of any loyal or greedy citizen to try to finish the job, killing you off."

Merlin snorted and lifted his hand to rub his forehead. "I don't understand it," he admitted. "But, Gwaine, I have a very bad feeling about this."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin anticipated Leon's planned place of secret shelter a quarter of an hour before they reached it. He wasn't sure he agreed with the choice – but that was for personal reasons. Probably everyone else would be perfectly comfortable there…

Their back-trail was as safe as his magic could make it - every trick he'd learned from the druid clans' moving camp, and from Arthur hunting, employed to be sure neither Agravaine with any gathered mercenary survivors nor that black rider could follow.

They left their mounts in a hidden glen not far from the cave's mouth, with Gwaine and Percival volunteering to care for the horses and everyone else hauling whatever bits and pieces had been discovered in bags or packs attached to the saddles, into the dark opening.

Merlin lit a torch for Leon, who entered first, and another for Lancelot, who supported a limping Arthur; he stopped himself yet again from insisting upon using his magic to heal his prince immediately.

Instead he lingered to erase the last marks of their passing, to ensure safety for all of them. To twine several spells about the trees in a semi-circle around the opening in the hillside, walking from one to the next, brushing his hand casually over the bark to anchor the magic in place – about one day, he thought, would be sufficient for now. Something like the protection he'd placed on Freya's house, mingled with the wall-wards on the palace of Lionys. To discourage anyone from passing by closely enough to notice them – since this cave wasn't exactly a secret to the knights of Camelot, only avoided, and for good reason – and to alert him if anyone did.

He turned away from the last tree to meet Freya's eyes, five yards away, as she waited by the cave's entrance, probably for her brother. She gave him a smile, as if she'd guessed what he'd done, and approved… or as if she knew nothing, but trusted him anyway. He grinned back and headed toward her; she was the only other member of the party capable of doing magic, he should probably warn her before they went inside…

But Lady Guinevere reached her first, speaking to her and clearly inviting the younger girl's company, to enter the dark space together, Elyan at her other side. And between them and him, Tristan came supporting Isolde beside him.

"How does your head feel?" Merlin asked her, trailing the couple.

She didn't turn, didn't give him the sweet-sly smile he'd already figured was characteristic for her. "It's pounding," she admitted with a catch in her voice.

Tristan leaned over briefly to kiss her hair at her temple. "You'll be all right," he promised. "Just a little farther."

The cave, Merlin remembered, opened up into a cavern almost ten yards down the passage. There should be room for all of them to feel comfortable, not crowded, even though the floor was rough and sloped a bit further downward. The far corner, he saw – emerging into the larger space, as Leon and Elyan investigated the chamber to either side with torches – was still cluttered with the objects and treasures that workers had begun to transport, before the death of their fellow had spooked them from the place, and the rumors of hauntings and curses kept anyone from returning to claim anything. There would be some seating, he expected, maybe even some oil or serving dishes they could use.

"These crypts belonged to the ancient kings," Arthur remarked from the center of the chamber, under the highest point where a fire would make the most sense. "It'll do for a while."

Lancelot held his torch aloft to view the space for himself, as he supported the prince in easing himself to the ground. Gwen checked Arthur with a glance, then went to speak in Elyan's ear; they both turned to the largest pile of abandoned artifacts. Merlin crossed to Arthur, calling his magelight into being over his palm, and kneeling beside the prince on the stone floor to examine the bloodied knot of fabric that had been tied around Arthur's thigh.

"Leon said it missed the bone," Arthur said, leaning to the side as he tried to see it for himself.

Merlin murmured acknowledgement. "It can't have done you any good riding for the better part of two hours," he commented.

"It'll be fine – see to Isolde's injuries first." Merlin folded the temporary bandage back down over the wound, but some instinct prompted him to remain kneeling next to Arthur. Waiting. Listening. Arthur's face looked drawn and grim in the flickering torchlight. "Merlin… what are we walking into, this time," the prince added in a hollow voice, barely more than a breath.

First Lionys, now Camelot. "Out of the frying pan," he suggested with humor, and saw Arthur's mouth twist wryly before he caught himself.

"What must they be thinking?" he said softly. "My father, and Agravaine… Morgana?"

A flash of memory – _Morgana, beautiful and pale and haughtily resolute… a pair of hands holding the Pendragon crown just over her black waves of hair_. "We'll know soon enough," Merlin said, and looked up as Gwen exclaimed over an ornate flagon of flammable oil, and Freya rummaged further for some smaller vessel to function as a lamp, and maybe some material for a wick. Leon shook out some thick fabric – a covering canvas, maybe – one-handed, and brought it to provide some cushioning for Arthur.

Merlin straightened and moved to the side, where Tristan had laid out a dusty rug and was helping Isolde to recline more comfortably on it. He dropped to one knee, not far, but not intrusively close, the orb of blue light highlighting the smugglers' faces. Tristan gave it a sidelong glare; Isolde gave Merlin a tired smile.

"I suppose you know," Merlin commented neutrally, "that I'm the physician's apprentice in Camelot." Tristan grunted, and Merlin took it for encouragement to continue. "I'm happy to heal your head wound," he said, to Isolde, "with magic, if you like?"

She turned her eyes on her partner, who said shortly, "No, thanks."

Merlin didn't retreat. "You don't trust me," he said. He wasn't offended; the smugglers were hardly alone in that. "You can talk to Gwen or Freya, I've used healing magic on both of them, this week." Tristan turned in his crouch to stare at Merlin, and Isolde's gaze slipped past his shoulder to the girls at the other side of the chamber. "I mean, I don't claim to know everything," he told them, "I can tend that cut on your arm without, stitch it and apply an herbal poultice later –" he wished they hadn't lost Freya's jar of comfrey-based ointment in the burned cart – "but head injuries can be chancy things."

Isolde looked at Tristan again, and something unspoken passed between them. "In exchange for what?" the smuggler said warily. Merlin didn't understand, and let Tristan see it. "You'll heal her, but at what price? What do you want from us?"

"Nothing," Merlin said honestly, and saw immediately that each of them would resist receiving something for nothing. "I mean, just… information. About Camelot. For Arthur. Just talk to him and answer our questions?"

Tristan held his gaze – hard gray eyes in a hard lined face indicative of a hard-lived life – and nodded.

Merlin released his support of the magelight to hover where it would serve him best, and moved closer, reaching his fingertips toward the bruising scrape at the side of Isolde's forehead. He thought the bone of her skull might have been cracked, but didn't want to risk causing more pain or damage by making sure. He spoke the strongest and best spell he knew for such an injury, "_Ic the purhhaele pinu licsar mid pam sundorcraeft paere ealdan ae_," and the wound closed as though someone had simply brushed a red-tinged smear of dirt away.

Isolde sighed, and smiled her sweet-sly smile, the tension of pain gone from her expression. Tristan took her face gently between his hands, brushing his fingertips over the unmarred skin of her forehead. She nodded in answer to the question he hadn't asked, and he leaned forward to kiss her lips.

Merlin turned to give them some privacy, straightening and stretching as he headed back to Arthur, lying on one elbow on the bunched canvas Leon had positioned for him, the torch burning a few feet away in a large dusty golden urn. Gwen reached Arthur at nearly the same time he did, Freya following carefully a few steps behind with the makeshift lamp blazing in her hand.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen knew what it felt like to be shot in the leg with an arrow, and she was impressed by Arthur. Surprised, too – he hadn't even fallen when it happened, though that might have been due to Gwaine's support beside him. Hadn't even cried out when the arrow was drawn. He'd boosted himself into the saddle with his good leg, drawing himself up high enough with his arms to straddle the horse, but once mounted, he'd given very little reason for anyone to remember his injury.

Dismounting and entering the cave was another matter, requiring Lancelot's aid, but then she'd seen him send Merlin to tend Isolde first. The prince half-lay on some cloth padding, propped on his elbow; he had his head resting in his hands and, she was pretty sure, his eyes closed. She didn't blame him, it was a pretty terrible homecoming.

She reached Arthur at the same time Merlin did, and fussed over straightening his makeshift pallet as much as she could, as the young sorcerer urged his prince to turn and allow him to inspect the injury again. Freya followed them more slowly and carefully with their makeshift lamp.

"Should make you drop your trousers," Merlin commented, his eyes twinkling at Gwen across Arthur's prone body.

The prince only grunted, in no mood to allow the younger man to cheer him up. "Get on with it, Merlin," he said. Merlin's fingers were busy and gentle untying the bloodied material of the bandage, positioning the rent in Arthur's trousers over the tear in his leg. Halfway between hip and knee, Gwen thought, as Freya shifted to keep the light of the little oil-dish where Merlin needed it. Then Arthur said, in an odd voice that caught her attention, "Is he still there?" She noticed that Arthur's head was turned to the farthest end of the chamber, where the rough outline of another passage was almost lost in shadow. And there was no one there.

Merlin evidently understood the question. "Yes," he said evenly, not even pausing in his work. "He is." Arthur made a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement, as the young sorcerer spread his hand so his palm covered the injury, inches above Arthur's leg. He mouthed something, his eyes flaring gold briefly – _oh, good_, Gwen thought. Then, a moment of stillness and waiting… and he did it again.

Then Merlin frowned.

Freya met Gwen's eyes with a worried look, which only compounded her own rising anxiety.

"Don't bother using magic," the prince said. Lying on his stomach, he was facing away from them, but glanced over his shoulder to give this order. "It's a little stiff, but I'll be fine when it's time to ride."

Merlin didn't answer for a pair of heartbeats, but when he did, he sounded both calm and optimistic. "Fine by me," he said, "for now. We'll need fresh water, comfrey –"

"Yarrow?" Freya said, bending over the three of them with the lamp steady in her hand.

He glanced up at her, surprised, then considering. "Yes, that'll do," he answered, retying Arthur's bandage. "There's a spring at the bottom of the cave –" he twisted around to face the darker tunnel descending out of the chamber, that the prince had been contemplating a moment ago, and paused. "No," he continued, more deliberately. "I'll get the water. If you don't mind going outside for the yarrow and comfrey?" Freya shook her head. "Gwaine's still with the horses," Merlin reminded her. "Have him go with you."

"There are some vessels there," Gwen said, pointing to the back wall, and the mound of objects, most of which seemed to be valuable, and oddly abandoned, "you can use to carry the water."

He flashed her a grin, rising to his feet. "Nothing so ordinary or useful as a bucket, is there?" he said wryly, but didn't seem to need a response before he loped off.

Freya set the lamp down near Gwen's feet, murmuring something about not being gone long. Gwen moved her legs out from under her, to one side, resting on one hand on the stone floor of the cave. Arthur shifted also, reaching to probe his wound for a moment before subsiding. The wavering wick shone from perspiration on his face; that and the fact that Merlin's magic had evidently proven unsuccessful worried her more than she'd like to admit, even to herself.

Elyan and Lancelot had busied themselves organizing more torches, breaking the legs from an ornately-carved chair, tying oil-soaked strips of cloth around them, propping them along the wall. Tristan was sorting through the saddlebags they'd carried in, and Leon picking through the pile of fine junk abandoned in the cavern.

"What is all that?" Gwen asked the prince. "What is this place?"

"Near as we can guess, a series of burial chambers," Arthur said, not looking at her. His upper body was raised and supported on his elbows, but his head rested in both hands, which obscured his face. "Centuries old, maybe. Some children found the entrance last spring, and my father started having them excavated."

Gwen watched Leon move a small chest and lift another canvas cover in a billow of dust; the jumble was receiving keen glances from both smugglers, also. There were things, she thought, that might have proven too unwieldy to move, even to fit through the mouth of the cave as it was, but most of it seemed as if it would be fairly easy to transport. "What happened?" she said.

Arthur huffed, and took a moment to answer. "One of the chambers belonged to a powerful sorcerer. Cursed, they said. Rigged with death-traps. One of the workers was killed, and another man, a thief. That room's been sealed off, but still."

"No one comes here," she finished for him. He nodded against his hands.

She couldn't help thinking of the prince saying quietly to his sorcerer, _is he still there_? But of course it was safe, Leon wouldn't have brought them, otherwise, and Arthur wouldn't have agreed to stay.

Percival entered, carrying an armful of deadwood for a fire, and let it tumble out near Arthur, as Elyan approached the two of them also. "It's not that cold in here, sire," the big knight commented. "We should wait until mealtime to light a fire?" Arthur mumbled something vaguely in agreement, and Elyan met Gwen's eyes with concern. Percival's square face betrayed none of his thoughts. "There was a crossbow on the saddle of my mount," he added. "And there's time enough before the noon meal to set a few snares."

"Keep an eye out for extras, nuts and berries and roots and the like," Gwen told him, and he gave her a broad boyish grin.

"I'll go with him," Elyan volunteered, leaving Gwen alone with the prince again.

She sat by him quietly, aware of the murmur of Tristan and Isolde's voices beyond her right shoulder, but not looking toward the couple. Arthur shifted, pushing himself further up, then rolled stiffly and carefully to a leaned-back sitting position, drawing his injured leg up slightly to keep the pressure of his weight off the wound.

"I'm sorry," he said to her. "If I'd known –"

"I know," she said, interrupting. "But you didn't, and it's fine. I'm glad we're here, really." Of course if she'd stayed in Lionys she would be unaware of the danger the men were in, but that thought made her cringe inside for some reason. "I'm glad we can help."

Movement near the lower tunnel made her turn her head. Merlin staggered into view, straining under the weight of a large golden basin, water slopping over the cuffs of his sleeves and onto his trousers. Leon looked over to make a comment that was inaudible to her; Merlin answered with a grin. And a question that made Leon glance over at Arthur with a sober look. He responded to the young sorcerer's question with a quick shake of his head, and some explanation that Merlin listened to intently, biting his lip. After a second of silence, it was Leon's turn to ask a question; Merlin's reply was accompanied by an awkward shrug of his shoulders and another splash of water, which prompted him to continue on toward the smugglers.

"Has all this made you reconsider," Arthur asked her, softly but bluntly, recapturing her attention. "Please tell me the truth?"

She gave him a reproachful look, then – because the cave was dark, and the others occupied or absent - leaned forward to kiss him gently, deliberately. His lips felt cool to hers, his response a trifle slow. She hoped he didn't mean, _I don't know how to tell you that all this has made _me _reconsider_. She didn't want to seduce – what a bizarre word and completely foreign to _her_ experience – him into making an offer he'd later regret, but she knew no better way to reassure him of her commitment.

There was astonishment in Arthur's eyes as she pulled back, and she reminded him, "Whoever wanted you killed chose to try it in our city and using our citizens. We are involved, Arthur." He nodded, but seemed saddened, somehow.

Merlin's voice floated to them, "I don't suppose any of these saddlebags had any soap in it, did they? Ours I think was in our cart." Gwen shifted so she and Arthur could watch his sorcerer tip a handful of water from a smaller bowl evidently dipped from the larger reservoir he'd carried into one cupped hand and scrub vigorously. He unwrapped the bandage from around Isolde's arm.

"I think ours was, too." Isolde's voice was pleasantly husky, the sort of voice that men seemed to like. She produced a slender needle from somewhere – that was actually a good idea, Gwen thought, to carry such an easily-lost item threaded into a seam or hem – and a length of thread.

Merlin nodded thanks, and glanced into the bowl, his eyes lighting with the performance of his magic before steam rose from the shallow water. He found a clean section of the bandage to wet, and began to clean Isolde's arm with careful gentleness, before cleansing the needle and readying it to stitch the cut. Gwen noticed that Tristan's expression was one of reluctant appreciation.

"Mercenaries," Merlin remarked lightly, "I think, are required by contract to remain filthy."

Arthur raised his voice to carry the distance. "What about Gwaine?"

Merlin glanced at them, grinning. "_He_ has a sister."

"If you figure," Gwen said, "to judge a book by its cover, or a person by their lack of cleanliness, we're all in trouble, I'm afraid." A moment later, she heard a soft footfall and turned just a second after Isolde raised her eyes. Freya entered the chamber alone, carrying an armful of leaves and a few dirty roots, heading unhesitatingly for Merlin and the smugglers at the base of the wall to the left.

Merlin spoke immediately. "Wasn't Gwaine with you?"

"He was," Freya answered, her soft, sweet voice carrying clearly through the cave. "But he went to join Percival and Sir Elyan a moment ago."

Gwen watch the younger girl kneel beside Merlin and begin to prepare the herbal concoction for application to Isolde's wound. Merlin watched her hands for a moment, then returned to his own task; both of them with their backs to Gwen and Arthur, and so close together that her view of the operation was obscured. She shifted her gaze back to the prince.

"What do you think now," she said softly, "of her?"

Arthur watched the two work, with an occasional low companionable murmur, then shook his head. "I can't," he told Gwen in a low voice. "I can't. Not now, not yet. He –" The prince broke off as Tristan pushed to his feet and crossed to join them, squatting where he could keep an eye on the young sorcerer tending Isolde.

"Who are you," he said again to Arthur, matter-of-factly.

Arthur's jaw tightened. "I believe I already answered that question once this morning."

"So you're going to hold to that claim," the smuggler said. He shifted and seemed to retreat into himself for a moment, as Leon knelt to speak to Arthur in a low murmur; Arthur stiffened, then winced, giving a response in the negative. And as the prince's attention was focused on the knight, Tristan flicked hard gray eyes over Gwen in a keen scrutiny. "Who are you, then?"

"I am Guinevere de Gransse," she answered, meeting his eyes evenly. "Lady of Lionys."

The smuggler mouthed her title with a dubious lift of his eyebrows, then shrugged as if he didn't believe her, but didn't think it mattered greatly. "And what, my lady, are you doing here?"

She knew he didn't mean, sitting at Arthur's side, or taking shelter in a cave. He meant, at all. She felt a rise of a little warmth. "Perhaps you heard that Prince Arthur was tended to marry by the autumnal equinox?" she said to the older man. "And that he left Camelot to visit a series of prospective wives?" She saw incredulity begin to twist the smuggler's expression, and tried to explain their situation to a stranger. "He came first to Lionys. We reached an – agreement. I returned with him for a reciprocal visit before an arrangement –" she hesitated to say _betrothal -_ it seemed a private and delicate word - and knew she was blushing – "is made official."

"Just like that, huh?" Tristan said, a note of derision in his voice. "You nobles fall in love pretty quick, don't you? Three days?"

"Well, it's not… it doesn't have to be… I wouldn't say… in love," Gwen stammered. She was nowhere near ready to make a proclamation of her feelings – not the time, not the place, if she even knew what her feelings were – and especially in front of someone who didn't even believe her! She scrambled for dignity, and stated, "Three days is long enough to be able to tell if you respect someone and care about them enough to make a relationship work."

Tristan smirked. "You make a very good actress."

She shot back without thinking, "And you make a very good idiot!"

"Guinevere," Arthur said, pushing himself up off his elbows and giving her a tired half-smile that ignored the smuggler entirely. "It's not worth it. He's just a smuggler."

She sighed and returned the smile. He was right; she didn't know why she'd allowed herself to be drawn into an argument. More tired than she thought, probably. She was glad Elyan wasn't there – or Lancelot.

"I wouldn't have to be a smuggler if it wasn't for your damn taxes, would I?" Tristan muttered rebelliously.

Arthur began, in a reasonable tone that told Gwen he was trying to follow his own advice, "Those taxes help protect the people of this land –"

"My people are dead, you call that protection?" Tristan retorted.

Merlin's voice interrupted whatever Arthur might have said. "Cleaned her wound," he reported mildly, dropping to the stone floor of the cave at Tristan's side. It was impossible for Gwen to tell how much he'd caught of their conversation after the smuggler had left his female partner to the sorcerer's attention. "Arthur?"

"In a minute," the prince said.

So Merlin continued, to Tristan, "There's no sign of infection, so as long as she gets plenty of rest, she'll be fine." Both men turned to look, and Gwen watched through the gap between them, as Freya tied a neat bandage around Isolde's upper arm, and the blonde-haired woman gave the younger girl a smile of thanks.

"Thank you," Tristan said slowly, turning back, but not quite meeting the eyes of the sorcerer-healer. "Merlin. For everything you've done for her. I may have lost my cargo, but I still have my beloved Isolde."

"Then," Arthur told him, "you are richer than you know." The smuggler looked at him, at Merlin, at her. Then upwards behind Arthur at Leon.

"I'm sorry," Merlin said to Tristan. "I think it was because the leader of the mercenaries recognized me, that they attacked your camp."

Tristan shrugged a reply to the sorcerer's apology. Gwen wondered suddenly if the idea had occurred to any of the others, if that leader could have recognized Merlin, was it then someone he knew, too?

"Arthur," Merlin said again, "I need to –"

"It'll keep," the prince said, his eyes on the smuggler. "About this proclamation."

"Almost a fortnight ago, Prince Arthur left Camelot," Tristan said, with an uncertain sidelong glance at him. "Five days ago his half-sister Princess Morgana arrived. Four days ago the proclamation was made: the prince had been killed on his journey." His eyes rested unfocused on a bare bit of floor, and the lines in his face deepened in concentrated recollection. "The king was weakened in his grieving, but the princess was acting regent – I don't remember the exact wording, but I understood that a coronation was planned."

"When?" Merlin said intently.

"Within the week."

**A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and ep.4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." Merlin's healing spell from ep.3.5 "The Crystal Cave".**

**Oh, PS, if anyone else is doing NaNo this year and wants to connect on the site as buddies, let me know… **

Guest: For this fic, Elyan is Gwen's younger brother, making him around Merlin's age (20-ish). And as Lionys is relatively quiet, compared to Camelot - and I think I may have mentioned in part 1 that Elyan's role is much more administrative than front-lines - I'd say yes he has adequate training, but very little battle experience? Glad you like the Arthur/Gwen interaction, and thanks for good NaNo wishes! I'm only about a day behind, now, instead of five!

LCT: Hope the explanation for Arthur's 'death' was sufficient for now… more later! Confused characters is good, confused readership, not so good.


	18. Someone Trustworthy

**Chapter 18: Someone Trustworthy **

_A coronation was planned… When?_

_Within the week._

Gwen's hand found Arthur's. Such a ceremony, even performed under a misunderstanding of circumstances, might be considered legally binding, unless Morgana chose to abdicate in Arthur's favor. Such things had happened in the past, and came down to a question of power and personality and support. Who was strong or ruthless enough to take or hold or retake the crown, to remove the opposition. She shivered at the thought of a kingdom like Camelot – strong and central in the land of Albion – torn by such serious internal conflict. What effects might ripple outward, to other lands, then?

"Weakened in his grieving," Arthur repeated softly. "Broken… I don't like it, Leon."

"Uther Pendragon was never one to admit a weakness," Leon commented. "But when it comes to his son…"

"He has faced the idea of Arthur's death before," Merlin added. His eyes looked dark in the dim cavern, the reflection of torchlight glittering in their depths as he looked up at Leon. "Dinas Emrys, remember? You weren't in Camelot when the Questing Beast attacked him, but… Uther was distraught, but not – never – incapable of ruling."

"I find it hard to believe he would accept it as truth, so quickly," Arthur stated. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and he passed his free hand over his face. "Without proof, Leon, without even a body? We came back here to investigate who paid assassins in Lionys, only to find our lives threatened here? No official report sent – obviously not, since I'm still here…" He spread his hands, straightening – and winced again, reaching to the back of his left thigh. Merlin's eyes, at least, as well as Gwen's, followed the motion. "Possibly a well-meaning but mistaken citizen could have carried the news, arriving here before we did. But my father believing such a rumor? To the extent that he is unfit to rule?"

"I find I'm interested in the part where Merlin is an outlaw," Leon commented wryly, and Gwen suspected Arthur's senior knight of a deliberate subject change to distract his prince. "Tristan?"

The smuggler shrugged. "It was just as I told you. Twenty gold pieces to whoever can produce his head. If he's seen in the company of a yellow-haired man, that man's life is forfeit, also. And anyone resembling the prince is to be arrested for questioning. Anyone claiming to be the prince is to be killed immediately…" He twitched his shoulders again noncommittally. "You get the idea."

"It makes no sense," Arthur exclaimed, slamming his fist on the stone floor.

"If your father believed you dead and wanted me punished?" Merlin offered, without looking at Arthur.

The prince shook his head. "Then why would any companion of yours be under a death sentence also? Maybe someone else was responsible for the proclamation - Agravaine barely knows Merlin's name, and Morgana would _never_ think that –"

"You forget where she's been for the past four months," Merlin said quietly.

Gwen felt the prince's answering tension through the hand she held. She remembered him saying, _she's on the priestesses' isle, learning magic._ She remembered Leon saying, _an understanding with someone on the priestesses' isle_. She herself had said, _your death gains nothing for anyone, your father would still have another heir… _ Impossible. Impossible. And yet…

"Rumor is," Tristan remarked, "that you either killed him –"

Arthur scoffed, and Merlin murmured, irreverently but mirthlessly, "Thought about it a few times."

"Or betrayed him," the smuggler continued, "or – Arthur…" He looked uncomfortable with his own tacit assumption of the prince's identity. "Or that with Arthur dead, you'd try to reclaim your position in Camelot with an imposter."

Arthur snorted. "Because his position in Camelot was always so comfortable, so enviable…"

"It might someday be," Leon said.

There was silence. Tristan watched the three men think; Gwen noticed that Isolde and Freya were watching them also, whether they could hear what was being said, or not.

A shuffle sounded by the tunnel leading out, and they all turned – except Merlin, Gwen noticed, as she twisted her head – to see the other four men enter the cave. Lancelot stepped to the side to prop the crossbow against the wall of the cavern, and Percival headed for the firewood. Gwaine and Elyan carried what was supposed to be the noon meal, she supposed. A string of rabbits, a cluster of feathers that might have been three, or four, game hens. Moments, only, before all four had caught the tension, and focused attentively.

Arthur noticed, and made no protest; when he spoke, it was clear enough and carried through the cavern. "We need more information before we try to decide what to do. We need to know the truth of my – of the king's condition. And who is responsible for placing that bounty on Merlin's head."

"Is there someone within the city that you trust, well-placed to be able to answer those questions?" Lancelot asked, approaching the seated group.

"Gaius," Merlin said immediately, and Arthur nodded a slower agreement. "I'll go," the young sorcerer added, and more than one warrior scoffed.

"You're the one they want dead," Arthur reminded him.

"It's too dangerous for either of you," Leon said. "I will go, sire."

Arthur shook his head. "You left Camelot with me; at the very least they'll want to question you."

"I have a better idea," Gwaine said, interrupting with a grin. "They won't recognize me; I'll have no trouble walking right up to your Gaius."

"Whoever wants Merlin dead is surely going to be watching Gaius' chambers, and they'll probably be suspicious of any strangers arriving asking for him," Arthur pointed out.

"I have to go," Merlin said, more firmly, his eyes on Arthur as the one he needed to convince. "It will take too long, otherwise. I can be back here before a rider even reaches the citadel."

"You don't go alone," Arthur told him. "The last thing we need is for someone to anticipate this and ambush you – and curse you again, as likely as not," he added, lightly scolding, as if he'd make a joke of his concern.

"You can come with me if you like," Merlin said to him, with a small impudent smile. "I can take you from here to his chamber in moments, only."

"You shouldn't go, sire," Lancelot said, reasonably. "You can't even walk."

"Yeah, about that," Merlin said. "I think Gaius should have a look at you, while we're there. I'm only the apprentice, after all."

Gwen gave him a hard look – he'd healed Isolde's head injury just fine, apparently. And he'd attempted magic on Arthur's wound, hadn't he? And it _was_ dangerous…

"In any case, we should be perfectly safe in Gaius' chambers," Merlin added. "There's already spell-work in place that should protect us."

Gwen felt only slightly relieved.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Freya!" She turned, startled at the sound of his voice.

Merlin loped across the cavern to where she stood, paused at the lower tunnel entrance. A few of the others, occupied in cleaning up after the noon meal, glanced up curiously, but briefly. He didn't stop when he reached her, but moved around behind her, so she had to turn to keep facing him. Maybe because he wanted to be able to keep an eye on Arthur, or the whole group, or – block her from the tunnel. He reached for the empty basin in her hand, the water having been used for the meal, making a trip for clean water necessary for the washing-up.

"I'll go get the water," he said, giving her a too-innocent grin.

She didn't let go of the basin. "Merlin, the prince is waiting for you, you don't have the time." She didn't like the thought of the two of them entering the citadel when their lives were in danger if they were noticed; the work would help distract her.

"He can wait. I'll go." Over the prince's insistent calling of his name, he added, "Or – get someone else to go."

"Why?" she said. She thought she knew, but she wanted him to explain.

He looked at her more closely, like he could read what she was thinking. "Because I don't want you going down this tunnel," he told her softly. "You're the only other magic-user here – you can feel it, can't you?"

"The – darkness?" she asked. A shivery sensation, whenever her thoughts ventured down the dark mouth of the lower tunnel. "What's down there? Burial chambers, Gwen told me, but – I've never sensed anything like this?"

"He was a sorcerer, centuries ago," Merlin said, glancing over her shoulder and holding up one finger, presumably to Arthur. "His tomb is cursed, his soul is still there. That's why this place is abandoned."

"He can't – get out, though, can he?" Freya asked, uncertain as to the cause of Merlin's apprehension.

"No, the chamber entrance has been filled in," he answered. "I sealed it myself with magic. I just don't want you… to go down there."

Freya stared at him. "And what was it you thought I'd do when facing the entrance to a burial chamber that had been sealed with magic?"

"Well, I know you're not stupid," he offered a smile, and shrugged, "but woman can be… curious."

She wanted to hit him. Hard, and then burst into tears, herself. "I'm not _women_," she hissed scathingly. "I'm _me_." She spun on her heel to stalk off, leaving the basin to bang on his knee. And just as quickly, she whirled again to return to his side, his astonishment at her outburst still on his face. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding to herself more defensive than contrite. "It's just –"

"It's been a hard day, I know, I'm sorry," he said, reaching as if to take her hand, but stopping the motion before he touched her, retreating again before she could meet his hand. "But you're safe here, Freya, you know that, don't you?"

"That's not it," she said. "After everything that happened in Lionys, you've got a death sentence hanging over your head here, too – and you're going right into the palace anyway."

He shrugged. "Don't be worried about it; I'm not."

She wanted to hit him again. It was going to be harder than she thought, caring about him, seeing him head into danger so calmly and willingly, and wait hoping he came back all right. "You shouldn't take such risks with your life so lightly," she scolded him, hoping to keep the emotion from her face and voice.

"How should I take them?" He gave her an amused smile that had her thinking about kissing –

"Take them _seriously_," she ordered, shaking her head to clear it. "I know you'd die for Arthur, just – as a very last resort? Your life is important, too."

"_Merlin_!"

His grin widened at the prince's demanding summons. "Now that is a death threat that I take very seriously," he quipped, beginning to back away from her. "I'll see you when we get back?" He turned and jogged to Arthur's side.

"Be careful," she whispered after him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin suspected magic. He expected magic.

Arthur was right about the coincidental timing of events in Camelot moving apace with the situation in Lionys. He was right to conclude a conspiracy larger than two assassins and their employer, but where Arthur might assume strategic planning by a clever opponent, Merlin saw magic.

To know, to look for a pair of sorcerers with scruples for sale. To react so swiftly when the attempt failed, spoke of more than riders or even winged messengers, it spoke of instantaneous communication. And that meant magic.

Men like Iseldir and Alator, with decades of travel and experience, might be able to list a dozen or more names of those who, like Alvarr or Tauren or the Collins', were willing to use their magic for selfish means – revenge, wealth, power – sorcerers Merlin had never heard of. Edwin Muirden had, within a week, manipulated his way close enough to seriously threaten the lives of the king and his daughter, both. With Merlin gone from Camelot… who knew.

But to get that close to the king, to present a report of Arthur's death as official and confirmed, to influence the council of nobles to issue the proclamation condemning Merlin, to summon the princess to take the throne… He was afraid of what they would find in Camelot.

The undying rode beside the king's brother-in-law and Arthur's uncle, after all.

"Well," Arthur said waspishly as Merlin trotted up to the group of men, knights surrounding the prince, Gwaine and Tristan at a few paces' distance, "take your time, Merlin."

Merlin forgave the tone; Arthur was not the best of patients. And by the sheen of sweat on his face, probably feverish by now. Merlin slid into position at Arthur's left to take the support of the injured prince from Lancelot, handing him a smooth gray pebble he'd picked up at the spring further down the passage.

"Ware-stone," he said briefly, to Lancelot's glance of confusion at the stone in his palm. "In case of an emergency."

Gwaine leaned over the knight's shoulder to poke at it. "Like you left in Mary's house? Let you know if someone came in, and what was going on there?"

Merlin gave his head a swift shake. "Too distracting, here," he explained. "Too many people, too much going on. This will carry sound, only. Just say my name, and I'll hear."

Gwaine flashed him a grin. "What if we want to talk about you behind your back?"

"Full name, Gwaine," Merlin said, accepting the teasing with a smile of his own. "You can say Merlin all you like, and I won't know. Add Emrys if you really need me." Lancelot nodded, closing his fingers on the stone and pocketing it. "Give us a bit of space?" Merlin suggested, and as the men shuffled back a step or two, Gwen leaned forward to put her hand on his arm.

"You will take care of him?" she whispered.

"On my life," he promised her.

Then took a deep breath, closing his eyes and centering himself, visualizing his destination. This was, he thought, very nearly the riskiest magic he'd ever performed, the teleportation spell. Aside from the experimental time-gap magic he'd done with Arthur to save his life at Dinas Emrys, but that had been in extreme circumstances, desperate and instinctive. He'd done this in Lionys, to travel from the forest to the city when he'd feared for Freya's safety, but in focusing on the girl he'd befriended, he found that he'd arrived in the alley where she'd reached to twine her arms around him and cry in his arms. Not to her directly, or even to her house. And so, had almost been too late.

No, no thoughts of Freya. He'd find himself standing stupidly in place, in the cave where she remained, or traveling several days' distance with his prince back to Lionys, both of them passing-out exhausted because the length of the trip and the number of people transported affected the amount of energy and magic.

_No_. He cursed himself. Camelot, and Arthur. Gaius. _Focus_.

He pictured the room in his mind, the stillness, the smells. Blocking out Tristan's voice muttering something about the likelihood of their return - based on his low opinion of their chances or his doubt about Arthur's identity, Merlin couldn't waste time or attention deciding - blocking out Gwaine's sharper reply. Feeling Arthur's grip pinch almost painfully on his shoulder.

Merlin spoke, "_Bedyrene us, astyre us thanonweard_."

He knew how they would experience it, in the cave. A rush of swirling wind and tattered reality, as though narrow strips of his body and Arthur's had been ripped from the air and blown away.

Merlin felt only the breath of magic, stirring his hair and clothing. For an instant they were nowhere, and then they were _there_.

It was the same as he'd left it, a bit late to meet Arthur and Leon – Caridoc and Vidor – in the courtyard. Bed rumpled and cabinet standing open, the door between his bedroom and the main chamber shut.

He led Arthur to the bed, the prince's leaning weight drawing him downward also. "It's probably not been washed," he said.

"I don't care," Arthur groaned softly, collapsing across the narrow frame and thin mattress by degrees, lowering himself to rest facedown, careful of the sword still at his belt. Merlin crossed to the door and put his eye to the largest crack between the planks, making sure no one was in the outer chamber, making sure he hadn't somehow been mistaken about the protection his magic had placed on the room so long ago. If he had to, he'd seal the door and then take Gaius with them, back to the cave. "Well?" Arthur mumbled wearily into the bedding.

It was dim, and quiet. The hearth was cold, and no candles were lit; the window was shuttered but the sun still high enough in the sky to send a sufficient glow through the room. Merlin waited a moment longer, but discerned no movement, heard no noise. "No one is here," he said, trying to keep apprehension from his voice. Where was Gaius? If he'd been harmed, or even moved from the chamber… "Stay put," Merlin said, "and try not to move that leg."

Leaving the prince, Merlin opened the door and slipped through. He took one step down into the main chamber, and the middle stair creaked. Cloth rustled near, to his left – he spun, almost tripping down the last step, as a figure rose from a sitting position on the narrow stair that led to Gaius' highest bookshelves.

"Gaius!" Merlin exclaimed in relief, unhesitatingly moving to embrace the old man. Gaius couldn't know what he'd been through in Lionys, the relief that the old physician was there to heal Arthur; he wouldn't understand the sudden overwhelming comfort Merlin felt at being home, even for a short while and in such dire circumstances. He couldn't even begin to put it into words.

"Merlin!" Gaius exclaimed, in much the same tone, gripping him hard. "I can't believe you're here – are you all right?"

Merlin took a deep breath of the familiar pungency of the room he loved, where he lived, and let it out, releasing Gaius to step back with a smile. "All the better for seeing you," he told his mentor sincerely.

"And Arthur?" Gaius demanded. "He's alive?"

"Mostly." Merlin grinned. "He's –"

"Then he wasn't killed in Lionys!" Gaius exclaimed, not waiting for an answer. "I knew it! But, Merlin, do you know the risk you take, coming here?"

"I didn't really have a choice," Merlin told him. "I brought Arthur – he's on the bed." He jerked his head to indicate the open door to his chamber. "He was shot in the leg this morning – it might have been a mercenary? Leon removed the bolt and I dressed it with comfrey and yarrow. I tried to heal him using magic, but I think the arrow was poisoned; it didn't work."

"Let me take a look," the old physician said. He moved around Merlin to climb the stairs before him, saying, "Arthur!" in a glad, scolding tone as he caught sight of the prince sprawled on the bed.

"Gaius," Arthur slurred the name a little, but maybe because his face was half-hidden in Merlin's flat pillow. " 'M not dead."

"No, I can see that," Gaius said, in the stern voice he used to hide greater emotion.

Merlin went to the narrow table he used for a desk under his window, and returned with the stub of a candle, lighting it with a thought of magic as he came, holding it automatically where the physician would need it to inspect Arthur's wound. It reminded him of Freya assisting him in the same way… that gave him a warm, somehow steadying feeling.

Arthur grunted, maybe in pain or maybe in disgust at the ignominy of removing his stained and torn trousers, but Gaius' hands were gentle and swift on the blood-stained, makeshift bandage. "This may hurt a bit, sire," he said, as the material he unwound began to stick to the wound.

Merlin released the candle stub to hover in midair and left the room to leap down the stairs, and crossed to retrieve the bucket of water from its habitual place in the corner, spinning to hurry back, calling a stack of clean rags to his hand from the side table, and warming the water as he carried it.

As he re-entered his bedchamber, Gaius was telling Arthur, "The wound's infected. I'll have to redress the leg to reduce the inflammation."

"No, we don't have time," Arthur tried to object, but Merlin was relieved to see that Gaius ignored him.

The old man reached out to shift the floating candle a few more inches, seating himself next to Arthur's knee on the bed. "Thank you, Merlin. And if you could bring me the vial from the middle shelf in the second cabinet, sealed with green wax?"

As Merlin bounded out the door again, he heard Arthur say, "Gaius, my father –"

"Hush, Arthur," Gaius' order followed Merlin across the room. The rest of the old man's words were indistinct, but Merlin could guess them, something like, the conversation can wait until the treatment is complete.

Locating the vial the physician needed, he returned to the room. Gaius looked up from cleaning the back of Arthur's thigh to take the little glass bottle.

"Mercenaries," the old man said, as if it were a curse word. "When I learned that some used poison with their arrows, I demanded a sample so I could concoct an antidote. Just in case of accidents – and it's lucky I did." He peeled the green wax sealing from the vial and allowed the liquid inside to drip onto the tear in the skin and muscle of the prince's leg.

Arthur hissed, moving his arm as if trying to push himself up from the bed. "It wasn't an accident," he said grimly, shifting so he could glare up into Merlin's face. "You didn't say poison, Merlin."

He shrugged apologetically. "I didn't want you to worry," he said.

"There," Gaius said to Merlin, tipping the vial upright again. "That will have neutralized the poison in the wound sufficiently to allow your magic to work."

"What?" Arthur said, as Merlin leaned over the bed to stretch his hand out over the gash. "I told you, no mag-"

"_Ge hailige_," Merlin spoke, and the wound closed, slowly but surely, leaving the faintest of scars, some redness and swelling.

"Merlin!" the prince growled.

"Didn't you just say you didn't have time for Gaius to redress it?" Merlin retorted unrepentantly.

"I'll mix you a potion to help flush the rest of the poison from your system," Gaius offered, standing and returning the candle to Merlin's desk. "You can get up and move about, as long as you do so slowly and carefully. You'll be weakened, and probably experience some dizziness."

"Pants, Merlin," Arthur demanded, as the old man departed. This time he was able to push his upper body off Merlin's bed.

"Do you want to borrow mine?" Merlin offered, turning to his clothes cabinet. "I have an old pair in here, I think, maybe a couple small holes at the knees – I promise they don't smell like the leech tank – though they might smell a bit like the stables, actually –"

"Merlin, shut up," Arthur said, exasperated. "Just fix mine, can't you, since you're so eager to use magic."

"Oh," Merlin said, turning back. "Yes, right." He picked up Arthur's charcoal-gray trousers, using one wordless spell to mend the tear, and breathing, "_Fordwin wamm_," to clean them. Both were spells he'd memorized and mastered very early in the druid camp – both to spare his mother the trouble of tending his clothes by hand, and the knowledge of what he'd been doing – or, what had been done to him - to inflict tears and stains on his clothes. "Do you need help putting them on?" he teased.

Arthur snatched them back, affecting a disgusted glare.

Merlin returned to the main chamber, where Gaius stood beside the work-table, mixing and measuring by the light of another fat candle. "So," the physician said without pause or preamble, just a single keen glance, "what happened to the two of you?"

"A quarter of an hour through the Lionys city gates," Merlin said, "we were attacked by a sorcerer."

"An assassin," Gaius clarified, and Merlin nodded.

"A second attempt was made the next morning, before the assassin was killed." The old man looked at Merlin's face instead of the little bottle he passed from the shelf of emptied and cleaned glassware, understanding what Merlin didn't say. "The assassin's mother had magic also," he added. "She was furious at the death of her son, and attacked Arthur again at a banquet the following night, before I… stopped her."

"So Arthur wasn't even injured?" Gaius questioned, lifting his mixing jar to eye-level, to decant a dosage into the smaller bottle.

"Not so much as a scratch," Merlin said. They both turned as Arthur emerged from the back bedchamber, leaning on the handrail to maneuver down the stairs, and crossed the room with a noticeable limp. "Not til this morning," Merlin added, as Arthur reached them, dropping down on the edge of the bench to keep the pressure of his weight off the back of his thigh.

"Merlin's filled you in on our end of the story?" the prince said to the old physician, the set of his jaw and the expression in his eyes tired but determined.

"Somewhat," Gaius agreed, fitting a cap of oiled leather over the top of the bottle and winding a bit of narrow twine about its neck to seal it.

"And here?"

The physician handed the medicine to Merlin, and folded his hands in the opposite sleeves of his blue robe as Merlin stowed the bottle safely in his inner jacket pocket.

"Twelve days ago, Lord Agravaine came before the king with a report from a reliable source – so he claimed – that had seen you dead, Arthur. Assassinated. Initially your father was disinclined to believe it, ordering that scouts be sent to Lionys to ascertain the truth of the tale. This was past sundown; they were to leave at first light." The old man paused to gain a nod from both young men.

"That was the day we arrived in Lionys," Arthur said. "At sundown… I was in the guest chamber in the palace. On the balcony."

"Mm," Merlin murmured. "I was finding Thomas Collins' house empty."

"At midnight," Gaius said, slowly and deliberately, every inch the medical man pronouncing a grim diagnosis, "I was summoned to the king's chamber; he appeared to be having a fit of some sort, possibly even a mental breakdown."

"Not," Arthur said stubbornly, "my father."

"So I would have said, sire," Gaius told him gently. "He screamed, he wept, he spoke to your mother as if she stood in the room. And others, dead and alive, but none present. Several members of the council came to his chamber in the early hours of the morning, seeking to judge for themselves the validity of… rumors they'd heard."

"The king's guards don't gossip, do they!" Arthur argued. "Not if they value their position!"

"I bet those scouts were never sent, were they," Merlin guessed.

"Indeed," Gaius replied. "Just before noon, I was called from the king's bedside to attend an emergency council meeting, where I was pressed to divulge my estimation of the amount of time Uther would be… indisposed. Unable to assume his role and fulfill his duties reliably."

"What did you find when you examined him?" Merlin asked, perching on the table near Arthur and leaning forward intently. "Fever? Magic? A spell, or a curse?"

"No fever," Gaius answered. "Though his… restlessness, caused sweating, and a rapid heart-rate. I could detect no poison, though as for magic, Merlin, you could tell that far more quickly and accurately than I."

Merlin looked down at Arthur, who didn't lift his eyes from the jumble atop the work table. "What did you tell the council?" he asked softly.

"I told them the truth, Arthur," Gaius said, with gentle asperity. "Without a dependable diagnosis for the malady, I could make no guess as to length of recovery time."

"So the council decided to send for Morgana," Arthur said, with distant calm.

"Who arrived not twenty-four hours later," Gaius finished.

It was, Merlin thought, extremely fast. He and Aithusa had made the trip there and back again in a matter of several hours, but… Aithusa. He saw again through the senses of his dragon kin, the company collected on the shore opposite the priestess' isle. He opened his mouth to ask, through the dread flooding his chest, "Who accompanied Morgana?"

But Arthur had already begun a question of his own. "Who decided to crown Morgana rather than granting her the authority of a temporary regent?"

After a pause to assimilate both questions, Gaius inclined his head toward Arthur. "Lord Agravaine," he said, and looked at Merlin. "Morgause."

Merlin slipped to the bench beside Arthur, to have the table in front of him to lean on. "She's here," he said to his mentor. The unknown but suspected magic-user in Camelot was the High Priestess herself, not only acknowledged, but a welcomed guest. The dread drained away, leaving a fatalistic void in his chest. That vision of Morgana crowned, Morgause at her side, filled his eyes. Perhaps Arthur's death was not necessary, after all, before that came true, but neither did it mean the prince's life, or position, was secure.

"She hasn't left her sister's side," Gaius told them. "She hasn't let me see Morgana alone. Five days ago, she informed the council that she'd been in contact with you, Merlin. That you'd ranted insanely about Arthur's death, that she'd advised you to return to Dinas Emrys for a time to grieve, to let Camelot recover and adjust to a new rule. That you'd threatened to see Arthur crowned king if it was the last thing you did."

Arthur made no move of reaction, still staring down, lost in his own thoughts. Merlin gripped the edge of the bench. He didn't know whether to thump his head repeatedly on the wooden plank table in despair, or giggle helplessly at the thought that anyone could entertain such a ludicrous idea.

"Five days ago," Arthur said reflectively, "Mary Collins was dead, and your curse was broken, Merlin."

"Curse?" Gaius frowned at him for leaving that out of his quickly-summarized story.

"That's not coincidence," the prince continued. "That's –" He shook his head and dropped it into his palm - "not coincidence."

"You conclude that the proclamation declaring Merlin an outlaw and condemning any companion of his resembling you is a deliberate result of the failures of the assassin," Gaius said, and it wasn't a question. "It simultaneously disguises the attempts upon your life, and endeavors to realize them."

Merlin remembered he'd once told Gaius, he didn't fear for Arthur in company with Morgana and her sister; that Morgause would do nothing to harm her sister's brother. He found that fear was not lacking, anymore.

"I thought, perhaps Odin had contacted the priestesses," Arthur said, tipping his head to look at them without raising it from his hand. "To act as intermediary between himself and a killer-for-hire with abilities in magic. Perhaps Morgause found out, and simply acted upon an expectation of success…"

"And now she just wants to finish the job?" Merlin said grimly. "And in a way that won't be seriously questioned."

"If she presents you as a threat to her sister, and Arthur as an imposter under an illusion of yours," Gaius added, "she will be applauded for accomplishing your deaths."

"What of my sister, my uncle?" Arthur said. "They believe her lies, surely we can open their eyes to the truth. What of the knights? And… my father?"

"The knights are loyal to Camelot, as always," Gaius said. "In this instance, however, that means they will obey orders to kill you both on sight."

Now he really did want to thump his head on the table. And he felt less like laughing. A host of knights who'd try to kill them, and all men neither of them wanted to hurt. "Although," he said softly, "she posted mercenaries to intercept us – perhaps she fears that we might manage to persuade the knights of the truth?"

"Can you take her?" Arthur said, lifting his head to pin Merlin with a fierce light in his gaze. "At least long enough to _prove_ to them –"

He began nodding; whatever plan Arthur decided upon, Merlin would do his utmost to see succeed. If that meant facing a second High Priestess, so be it. A little voice in the back of his head said, _and about Morgana_? He ignored it.

"Arthur," Gaius said intently, leaning onto the table and looking down at the prince," "I cannot and will not counsel you to any course that abandons Camelot to the undue influence of the priestesses. But I implore you to use the utmost caution."

Merlin began, half in jest, "When do we ever not use the utmost –"

"Idirsholas," Gaius said, and it felt to Merlin as though the word was the bucket of unheated water dumped right over his head. Arthur simply gave the old man a quizzical look. "Last autumn, when you investigated, it was deserted. You both were distracted with the sleeping spell Morgana mistakenly placed on the citadel –"

At Morgause's instigation, and which had resulted in the revelation of the princess' magic to her father the king.

"And the next day, we could follow the tracks no further than the river," Arthur remembered.

The river, which ended at the sea. The vision of the shore, the sense of wrong magic – a stabbing flash of memory, the rider with the burning stumps of two arrows ignored in the center of his chest – was nauseatingly strong. Merlin put his head down on the table, taking deep breaths and hugging his elbows. _They are _here_, aren't they_, he thought, and _ye gods, there are_ seven.

"Morgause claims them as bodyguards," Gaius said. "They go hooded and cloaked and masked at all times. No one has seen them eat, or sleep."

"The Knights of Medhir?" Arthur said, and Merlin squeezed his eyes tighter shut at the incredulity in his prince's voice. He could fairly _feel_ the weight of Arthur's gaze on him.

"There are seven of them." He spoke downward to the stone floor beneath his boots that he could no longer feel. "And they cannot be killed."

Shocked silence. Then Arthur said, "You know this for sure?"

"There was one with the mercenary band," Merlin said without moving. Not one wraith, but seven… whatever they were.

"That black rider?" Merlin nodded awkwardly against the edge of the table. "You ran to draw him away from the rest of us," the prince continued. "What happened to him?"

"Buried him under a rockfall," Merlin said. "Temporarily."

"It makes a terrible sort of sense," Gaius said. "They pledged their lives in service to sorcery centuries ago. If Morgause's magic raised them, then it also must act as a sustaining force. If they are not truly alive, conversely they cannot truly die, perhaps."

"Arthur." The whisper stuck in Merlin's throat, as tight as the heart squeezed in his chest. "I cannot promise that I will be able to face the high priestess and seven Medhiri, I just don't know if I can –" Arthur's hand on his shoulder checked his somewhat desperate plea.

"Are the two of you alone?" Gaius said. "What of Leon, and Vidor and Caridoc? Perhaps they –"

"Vidor and Caridoc are dead, murdered in the attempts to kill me," Arthur told him. "Leon waits at the cave of Sigan's tomb with a party of visitors from Lionys." Merlin straightened abruptly, fearing at once that Arthur would propose endangering their new friends and that he would insist on only the three of them making an attempt to stop Morgause.

"Visitors?" Gaius said, surprised.

"Two knights Lord de Gransse sent to replace my escort," Arthur said, with a curious set to his jaw. "His son, Sir Elyan, as emissary to my… father. And another swordsman I hired." He avoided looking at Merlin at his exclusion of the two girls, and Merlin tried to avoid looking guilty by association. Now was not the time to be discussing romance, not when everyone's future was in question.

"You will return to them?" Gaius questioned, and Arthur nodded after a moment's hesitation; Merlin knew how much the prince hated any move that looked or felt like retreat. "You will need them, I'm afraid. We'll be lucky to get away with our lives, any of us."

Merlin pushed himself up from the bench. "Let me take you back with us," he said.

"You go, Merlin," Gaius answered, impatiently, to cover his feelings, Merlin suspected. "I'll just slow you down. That spell is hard enough, bringing one person along with you, let alone two. No."

"I can do it, easy," Merlin said obstinately. "But if you stay here… well, if you stay here, _stay here_. In this room, as much as possible. I don't know about… about Morgause…" Or Agravaine, but he'd swallow his tongue before voicing unsupported suspicions about Arthur's family to him. "But I'm sure the Medhiri will not be able to enter here, nor anyone else intending you harm."

"I will." Gaius reached out for his shoulders, pulled him close for another embrace. "You have to be careful, Merlin – Morgause will kill you as soon as look at you." He turned slightly to add, softly so Arthur couldn't hear him, "Look after our prince, Merlin."

Merlin could smile, at that. "Always," he said. "Arthur? You coming?"

The prince gripped the table to rise without using his left leg. "Not yet," he said. "I want to see my father."

**A/N: Some dialogue/spell-work from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and ep.4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." Spells from ep.2.12 "The Fires of Idirsholas" and 4.1 "The Darkest Hour."**

Guest: Have you got a fanfiction account? Because usually I like to respond to reviews more privately than here at the end of a chapter. And I'd like to explain a bit about Elyan… Glad you're liking Tristan&Isolde, and the rest of the intrigue, though!


	19. Coronation

**Chapter 19: Coronation**

The pain had finally eased. All morning it had felt to Arthur as though a hot coal had been tied to the back of his leg, searing that one patch of skin and muscle, radiating heat outward. It had, all morning, made it hard to concentrate on much else.

He hadn't been worried about it, exactly. He figured he could still fight, if he had to. Today, though, was only supposed to be about gathering information, to make an intelligent decision on what course of action to take, tomorrow or the next day, or…

Sitting on the bench before Gaius' worktable, surrounded by the familiar and safe, feeling whatever concoction or antidote the old physician had applied to the wound begin to clear his blood and his mind, the pain diminished if not removed entirely by Merlin's magic, he found that his thoughts returned to one aspect of this whole disaster. One person, rather.

His father.

Before Morgause arrived to denounce Merlin and prevent their return, Uther Pendragon had been told of his son's death. By his brother-in-law, a man he trusted. Who had heard it from… who knew. Arthur wasn't that concerned, he didn't know his uncle as well as he knew his father, found he didn't care a great deal if Agravaine believed him dead for a couple of days.

But then, something happened. That night. When Gaius had been called to tend the king, and the council had panicked and called for the presence of the second Pendragon heir, forgetting to verify the report concerning the death of the first. It was Uther's illness that allowed Morgause to enter Camelot and dictate proclamations. Illness, or – something.

Nimueh had attacked them secretly, with poison or monsters that could not be tracked back to her. But Morgause had come more openly, trying to manipulate conflict between those in Camelot while maintaining a pretense of peace.

If the king could be cured – the truth of Arthur's fate might then be cleared up without violence. The king on his throne. The high priestess sent back to her isle.

"I want to see my father," Arthur said, rising deliberately to face Merlin and Gaius. "Perhaps if he sees me, is made to realize that I'm still alive, he will – come to himself." Perhaps Merlin's magic could be effective to cure his father, also… "His word is still law – the council will back us, and the knights, and perhaps Morgause will withdraw without conflict. And if not, if we have to fight, even if we cannot kill those of Medhir, all the knights together can overwhelm and disarm and restrain them, can't we?"

Merlin gave Gaius an uneasy, questioning glance, and the old man demurred, "I cannot say such an outcome is impossible, though unlikely… Sire, it isn't safe for you to walk these halls."

"I could probably," Merlin began, retrieving a small sack from the table under the window and hurriedly began stuffing items into it – soap, candles, even most of a loaf of bread that might have been Gaius' noon meal leftovers, or intended for his dinner, "or no." He straightened and turned to face his mentor. "If she expects me, she'll have put up wards, wouldn't she? To alert her if any magic is done in or near certain chambers – and Uther's would be one of those."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," Gaius agreed, "if she's done exactly that, Merlin."

"What about here?" Arthur asked, tensing, wondering if he should expect guards to burst in at any moment.

"No, because of the protection I've already put on this room," Merlin told him. "She wouldn't be able to alter or add to it…"

Arthur found he was suddenly impatient – not to leave the safety of the room, but to commit to some action that might resolve this chaos. "Let's go," he ordered Merlin, grasping his sleeve both to propel him toward the door and to use him for surreptitious support and balance.

"If you need an old man, sire…" Gaius said.

"Take care of yourself," Arthur advised. "It is likeliest to be your skill as a physician that we need."

"Stay here," Merlin repeated to his mentor as he passed through the doorway to check the corridor and stair beyond.

"I am the court physician, Merlin," Gaius reminded him sternly. "There will be those who need my aid and skill – notably the king. At the very least I must continue to administer the sleeping draught every evening, it is the only way he passes a quiet night."

Merlin looked at Gaius, then at Arthur. Then, "As much as possible?" and Gaius nodded. Arthur remembered an overheard conversation at that very door, when the old man had called Merlin his son, and understood that his friend felt the same worry he did.

Gaius stood at the open door to watch them descend, Arthur allowing Merlin to go first down the stair, as a sort of scout; he could move faster than Arthur, right now, and if Arthur fell, due to weakness or loss of equilibrium from the arrow's poison – _yes, poison counts, _Mer_lin_, he thought – he figured he'd rather land on his friend than on the stone of the steps.

They encountered no one directly. Quite soon Arthur gave up trying to work out how the sorcerer chose their route through the citadel. More than once Merlin yanked him into a shadowed doorway or closet or behind a tapestry to avoid notice. Down from the tower where the court physician had quarters, around through various corridors and passages before they could climb up again to the upper levels of the royal chambers.

"Down here," Merlin hissed, thudding into him in a sudden retreat at the tramp of more than one pair of marching boots. Probably because Arthur's reactions _were_ slower today, the younger man slung Arthur's arm around his shoulders as he manhandled him down the short hall, rather than bypassing him to drag him along behind.

There was a door at the end; Merlin tried it and it was locked. Dim and dark – Arthur's feet felt clumsy, like he was a child wearing his father's boots – only his father didn't like when he did that, he had to find his father to return them – boots marching marching thundering through the thunder of blood in his ears he felt himself sagging against Merlin's lighter frame, leaning into the door.

He heard the sorcerer hiss a phrase of magic, and the door fell open, dropping them inside – on a winding stair, not all the way to the floor – Arthur swallowed a yelp of pain. Merlin left him a moment to close and lock the door again, pausing to listen to the wood _that makes no sense_…

After a moment he came back to seat himself on the stair beside Arthur, pulling something from the pocket of his jacket – it was dark and Arthur was tired so he closed his eyes.

He felt a hand gentle on his hair, coaxing him to turn his head. He felt something small and hard at his lips, smelled something bitter, and tried to turn away again.

"Drink it, Arthur," Merlin's voice said, earnestly persuasive. "Drink it?"

Absolutely disgusting.

As most of Gaius' potions were.

And effective. His heart ceased hammering madly through his chest, quieting the din in his ears and the throbbing in his temples, also. The shadows retreated from the edges of his vision, and the various parts of him felt conjoined properly, in decent working order, obedient to a coherent will.

"Are you all right?" Merlin asked in a low voice. "I know you don't want to leave without seeing your father, but –"

"Keep moving," Arthur whispered hoarsely, pushing himself up from the stairs.

And he realized that he recognized where they were – the locked door that led to a winding stair came out onto a viewing gallery at the far end of the formal throne room. Used when Bayard had arrived with his retinue from Mercia. Used when his father under an enchantment had made a troll – also under an enchantment – his heir.

Merlin stepped down and leaned his ear to the door, listening. After a moment he met Arthur's eyes and shook his head. Arthur looked up the stairs, considering. Across the length of the narrow gallery was another stair, another door. And he could hear voices echoing distantly… He began to climb the stair – literally, one hand on the higher steps, the other on the hilt of his sword, leaving Merlin to follow him.

The row of windows that ran the outer length of the gallery faced east; there would be no danger of moving shadows to alert the room's occupants to their intrusion this late in the afternoon, but there was no point in taking chances. If motion caught someone's eyes by chance, they would be discovered and have to make their escape without seeing his father. He dropped to his belly on the gallery floor, crawling elbows and toes, awkwardly and slowly until he could see through the base of the railing.

He was aware of Merlin doing the same beside him, coming to rest on his side rather than his belly as Arthur did, facing Arthur but looking down into the room.

There was a small crowd at the head of the hall, before the throne. To the left, a row of the knights, waiting deferentially and ceremonially in chainmail and red capes. Opposite them stood his uncle Agravaine, dressed darkly – properly and probably ostensibly for mourning – black leather vest over black shirt and trousers, speaking to a man Arthur recognized even from the back. The long rich robe, fur-trimmed, the sparse hair around the balding pate gave Geoffrey away.

"We can wait no longer," Agravaine was insisting to Geoffrey, in an oily, obsequious manner of false humility and respect Arthur had always found faintly nauseating. "I myself saw him this very morning not a day's ride from the city."

Arthur paid little attention, focusing instead on the young woman standing silent on the highest stair of the platform, her hand on the armrest of the throne – at that distance, he couldn't tell if the attitude was proprietary, or merely necessary. Dressed regally in purple, her ink-black hair pinned artistically back from her face and left to fall in waves down her back. His sister, Morgana.

Another woman moved out from behind the throne, wearing burgundy silk, one sleeve of black lace, the other sheer, with a ribbon to match the dress wound around her arm. Merlin hissed with the same outrage that had Arthur's muscles tensing to leap up, though the sorcerer gripped Arthur's wrist to prevent him moving.

Morgause. The High Priestess, atop the royal dais of Camelot. She descended past Morgana, intent upon the two noblemen.

The shadows drifted forward behind the throne, coalescing into five identical figures, hooded, masked, gloved hands on swordhilts. Arthur felt the ripple of shock that passed through Merlin's body, as the young sorcerer breathed a heartfelt obscenity. His grip on Arthur's wrist tightened almost painfully, and he put his head down on the gallery floor as if to block out the sight.

But no one in the room acted as if they minded – not the knights, nor Geoffrey.

"You risk much with your delay, my lord," Morgause said to Geoffrey, apparent respect mixed with arrogant command, the intensity of her voice causing it to carry though she hadn't spoken loudly. "My sister must have full authority to deal with threats like this rogue sorcerer decisively."

Arthur realized with a start that they were speaking of Merlin. And then with a _shock_ that he had overlooked someone waiting motionless in Agravaine's shadow.

Dressed simply in black shirt and trousers, lacking any outer garment or ornament whatsoever, except the crown – not beautiful, but strong and noble - on his graying hair. Hands loose and empty at his sides, eyes on the floor in a vacant catatonia of pain and loss.

Uther Pendragon. _Father_.

Arthur stopped breathing. Everything else in the room ceased to exist. He longed to leap to his feet and cry out to his father, longed to hear Merlin's voice repeat, as it once had, _Sire! He's not dead!_

Morgause turned from Geoffrey and Agravaine and stood before the king, her hands on her hips. Uther seemed to take no notice of her, utterly lost in his own mind. "Well, Uther," Morgause said evenly, triumph and sympathy alike missing from her tone, "how the mighty have fallen."

Arthur still wasn't breathing.

She reached upward with both hands; he had no doubt she meant to take the crown right from his father's head. "I don't think you'll be needing this anymore."

He rolled to reach his sword, no clear plan in mind other than to _stop the witch!_ and felt Merlin snatch at him in almost panicked desperation. "We can't! Not now, not here!" he hissed in Arthur's ear.

"Oh yes I can," he responded in a low voice.

"The guards will cut you to ribbons," Merlin whispered in agonized protest. "What use are you dead?"

Agravaine had hold of Morgause's arm. The blonde witch looked up into the older man's face, whatever she saw there causing her to step back in acquiescence. And Uther's brother-in-law removed the crown, himself, turning to place it upon the pillow in Geoffrey's hands. Uther might have been asleep on his feet for all the notice he took.

_Father. What is wrong with you?_ his heart keened. _Morgana, how can you allow this? Do something!_

Arthur guessed then that Geoffrey had somehow conveyed agreement, as Morgause turned again to take a place at the left of the throne's high decorative back. Morgana settled herself onto the throne, her face showing resigned determination only – and it was all wrong for her. Morgana was nothing if not expressive, fiery and energetic.

Geoffrey mounted the steps of the dais, holding the velvet pillow at just below Morgana's head-height. He glanced once at Morgause, then over the back of the throne at the motionless Medhiri, then fixed his gaze to the crown.

"By the right of blood and through the line of succession," he intoned, clearly and slowly, and Arthur felt the fight drain from him with every world spoken. "In accordance with the unanimous vote of the council and the lack of legitimate challenge…"

Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword, and gritted his teeth. Tears blurred his eyes and he couldn't put a name to the feeling that caused them.

_ Do you solemnly swear to govern the people of Camelot, to uphold the laws and customs of the land… Will you, to your power, cause law and justice in mercy to be executed in all your judgments… _

"By the power vested in me, I crown thee Morgana, Queen of Camelot," Geoffrey finished.

Morgause lifted the crown from the pillow, the gold probably still holding warmth from its previous owner, and set it atop Morgana's black hair.

Morgana didn't blink, her gaze fixed somewhere toward the end of the hall. Geoffrey turned to step back down to the room's level, Agravaine to some attention for Uther, the knights to disperse. Morgause, hanging over the back of the throne, backed by five legendary monsters, looked down on all and smirked in self-satisfied triumph.

Arthur relaxed onto his back and gazed unseeing up at the vaulted ceiling that was quite close to them, here. Well. That was that, then. Uther was no longer king of Camelot. As much as he hated to concede defeat to such an enemy, he didn't see that there was anything he could do that wouldn't end in bloodshed and death and loss and futility.

He felt a tug at his boot and raised his head to see that Merlin had retreated back to the doorway to the winding stair, and wanted Arthur to join him. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that only the two sisters remained; Morgause seated on the dais stairs, and Morgana leaning over one arm of the throne to speak to her, their nightmare guard unnaturally still and silent in a row behind.

Arthur wriggled over to join Merlin at the door, and headed immediately downward, feeling sick and dizzy and a bit sweaty. He would still see his father, at least. Perhaps they could even take Uther with them, get him out of here… though part of him recognized that the old king posed no threat anymore, and his comfort and care would probably be diminished in that cave, that he probably recognized little if anything of his surroundings. Arthur balked at the thought of leaving his father exposed to Morgause's derision, even unwitting.

"Arthur, slow down! Where are you going?" Merlin called softly, trying to hurry down the steps behind him.

"To my father," Arthur said. In turning to glance up the gloom-darkened passage at his friend, his injured leg buckled briefly, but enough to make him stumble and slide the last few steps, bruising himself as he flung out his arms to stop his fall.

"Wait, please," Merlin said, leaping down the stairs – over and around him, somehow – to end up below him, reaching to steady and support him. "It can't do any good now, and the risk is too great. Why don't we –"

Arthur used Merlin's pull against him, shoving the younger man into the wall at the bottom of the stair with the force of his full weight. "Merlin, I am ordering you to get me to my father!" he snapped, and he had difficulty straightening again.

"Wait," Merlin pleaded softly. "Just wait, please, Arthur. Your uncle probably went with him, and the _guards_. Listen to me. We'll go when it's safe, all right?"

Arthur wanted to argue, wanted to charge through the door wielding his sword against any who got in his way – but Merlin was right. They were his men, for the most part, loyally obeying orders in a crisis they didn't understand.

And – his legs were about to collapse beneath him.

He nodded, and Merlin helped him to ease back onto the stairs, folding up his long legs to crouch there also.

"Perhaps," Arthur said, "it would have been better if I had died in Lionys."

"Don't talk like that." Merlin sounded angry and scared and sick all at once. "Camelot needs you."

He shook his head, it felt thick and heavy again. "Camelot has Morgana. She'll be a good queen, I think…" If only she wouldn't listen to her sister…

Merlin reached inside his jacket for the little bottle of medicine Gaius had concocted and given him, and wordlessly handed it to Arthur. Instead of unsealing it, he leaned back on his elbows on the stairs with the vial in his hand. "I've known her," he told Merlin, the words seeming to come slowly to his mouth, "all my life. How could she do this to us?"

He saw uncertainty on Merlin's face and realized himself that he wasn't sure which woman he was referring to.

"I can't answer that," Merlin said. He stretched out his hand to nudge the bottom of the little glass bottle with his fingertips, and Arthur raised it in response to his unspoken urging. "But you have a duty to your father, to your people. You are alive, and you are heir, and you can't give up on them now. We cannot leave Morgause so close to the throne of Camelot."

Arthur stared at the vial, then tipped his head back to swallow the rest of the foul-tasting and life-giving potion. "You can't defeat the knights of Medhir," he reminded his friend in a hoarse whisper.

Merlin's expression was sympathetic, before the blue eyes so focused on Arthur's face glowed golden with unvoiced magic, and an agreeably restful lethargy stole over him. Arthur heard the sorcerer whisper, ""We don't know until we try," before all was lost in warm darkness.

When Arthur opened his eyes again, the warm darkness was still there, and he wondered how much time had passed while he was asleep. He felt simultaneously relieved at feeling the benefits of rest, and irritated with Merlin for performing magic on him – _without permission_? he asked himself sarcastically. He stretched out his arms to help push himself up from the stone stair, and one hand fell upon the prone body of someone else, who grunted in Merlin's sleepiest, grouchiest way.

"Having a little lie-down, Merlin?" he goaded his friend deliberately in a half-whisper.

"No," Merlin lied shamelessly through an audible yawn, and Arthur grinned in the dark, though it felt more grim than joyful.

"Good, because the time for sleeping's over," he told the sorcerer, gaining his feet. He was pleased to find them steady underneath him, the wound in his leg no worse than a sore bruise.

"You seem better." Merlin's whisper sounded hopeful in the darkness behind him.

"Well, I would be, if I hadn't just taken a nap on a stairway made of stone." Arthur listened at the door and heard nothing.

"You're welcome," Merlin returned unrepentantly, and his eyes gleamed briefly just opposite Arthur. The lock clicked open.

"How late is it?" Arthur asked. "How long did you let us sleep?" He sensed rather than saw Merlin's shrug, as they moved into the hallway, but the sorcerer's stomach growled. Arthur kept his laugh soundless. "You have bread in your bag, idiot," he breathed, grabbing at his friend to shove him forward toward the adjacent hall, dimly lit by a single torch at the far end, but deserted.

"That's for the others," Merlin tossed over his shoulder in a whisper, and Arthur grimaced at his back. The situation was dire, but not hopeless; Merlin always did have to get the last word in.

It felt very late. The darkness of the sky outside the windows was only just discernible from the darkness of the solid landscape below the horizon, and there were only a fraction of the people in the corridors that there had been earlier. Only once did Merlin motion him back, melting into the shadow himself as a lone guard passed by the end of the hall without so much as pausing.

The guards at his father's door – customary, necessary, and he was glad to see them in place, though they were guarding Uther from the wrong person – were another matter. But Merlin hesitated only a moment before ducking his head in a gesture Arthur recognized, and so was not as startled as he might have been to see a shadow flit ominously across the end of the hallway, followed by a noise of breaking pottery. One guard started toward the disturbance, leaving the other standing warily in place. Merlin huffed impatiently; a noise sounded, like a soft panicked cry from a female. The second guard hurried to join the first, and Merlin and Arthur slipped through the door.

His father's bedchamber was softly lit by the fire and one bedside candle. The young sorcerer remained at the door, keeping guard against unexpected interruptions, as Arthur stepped quietly to his father's bedside, not wishing to alarm him. Uther lay unmoving, the velvet cover pulled up to his shoulders as though someone else had done it, his eyes half-open and unfocused.

"Father," Arthur whispered, putting his hand on the edge of the bed for stability as he knelt, his stomach clenched to see his vigorous, irascible father so lifeless. He dodged a bit to put his face into Uther's unmoving line of vision, but there was no reaction, aside from the king shrinking back, so slightly it might have been Arthur's imagination. "Father, it's Arthur. I'm fine, I'm back." With Dinas Emrys and its aftermath on his mind, proving his presence and state of mind, he began, "No man is worth –" and choked on the rest, feeling a tear tickle at his eyelash in spite of himself.

No sign that his father either saw him or heard him at all. Uther blinked and breathed – and both slowly – but that was all.

Arthur straightened and backed away. "Merlin," he said hoarsely, and the sorcerer left the door to meet him in the middle of the room. "Can you… can you…"

Merlin understood and nodded, crossing to the bedside, while Arthur continued shuffling backward to the door, thinking incongruously of his friend, seated on the side of this very bed nearly two years ago, a beetle on his outstretched hand. But the lanky sorcerer did no obvious magic, pulled no debilitating substance from the king. Perching gingerly on the bed, Merlin paused, then reached down to touch the stone of the floor. He rubbed his fingers together without saying anything.

"What is it?" Arthur said. Merlin knelt on the floor to peer beneath the bed.

Clicking footsteps sounded in the corridor outside at a determined pace.

"Someone's coming!" he hissed at Merlin, who looked back at him with such a startled lack of reaction that Arthur dove for him, stuffing him beneath the frame of his father's bed, yanking his boots out of the light as the door opened.

The way they'd positioned themselves – swiftly, silently, and awkwardly – had Merlin curled toward the head of the bed, while Arthur was better concealed by the draped covers at the foot. The footsteps entered the room; he recognized a lady's fine slipper. A slender white hand reached into view below the edge of the bed, grasping what to him looked like a misshapen stocking full of wet, dripping mud, pulling it back.

Merlin recoiled with frightening vehemence, further shoving into Arthur's cramped space and blocking his line of sight. Arthur couldn't flip to his belly for faster easier crawling, couldn't see if the lady – which of the sisters? – had arrived alone. And in any case, he wasn't about to start a battle in his ailing father's bedchamber.

The footfalls retreated.

Merlin's boot struck Arthur's jaw a glancing blow as he scrambled out from under the bed on the far side; Arthur hissed a warning as another voice sounded from the door, and he recognized his uncle. But the door closed with no shouted discovery of the fugitive sorcerer, and Arthur dragged himself out as well.

"What was that?" he said. "Merlin?" The lean sorcerer rounded the bed to kneel near the head, again. Arthur followed more slowly.

"Mandrake root," he said shortly, lifting his fingers to sniff at the muddy, oily substance that had dripped from the object hanging beneath the bed – from his expression and reaction a task he found highly distasteful. "Your father _has_ been enchanted."

"But she took it with her," Arthur said. Morgause, he was sure of it. He was absolutely convinced. He would… he would not even consider another alternative. "Doesn't that mean he'll be all right now?" They both turned to look at Uther, lying unmoving and unseeing on the pillow – but clearly not peacefully asleep.

It reminded him in a grim, twisted sort of way of finding his father facedown on his desk, all the palace asleep around him. _He is not all right_, he'd snapped at Merlin. And Morgana standing right next to him, terrified and pale and responsible for the spell their father was under.

He sank down to sitting on the edge of the bed. "Can you do anything?" he asked, and his whisper hurt his throat.

Merlin didn't answer, but pushed himself to his feet, and stalked to the door, where he turned and paced back again, rubbing his fingertips together, frowning unhappily. He glanced at Arthur, waiting hopefully, then turned and made the trip back to the door again. "I don't dare," he said finally, in a low hollow voice. "I don't _know_, and anything I try…"

He jumped, and a moment later Arthur heard voices, also. Merlin took one long step to the other side of the door, to conceal himself behind it when it swung open, motioned for Arthur to remain where he was. He did so, but shifted his weight to be able to leap up and perform whatever action became necessary, dropping his hand to the hilt of the sword at his hip. The door opened, and Arthur's heart banged once in his chest before he recognized the white hair, the blue robe and rounded physician's case.

Gaius entered alone, without immediately seeing Arthur, and jumped when Merlin pushed the door closed behind him. "Merlin!" he said, just as surprised as he'd been when his apprentice had descended the stairs of his bedchamber earlier that afternoon, but far less pleased to see him. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd left Camelot hours ago?"

"My fault, Gaius," he spoke from the bed, causing the old man a second but milder alarm. "What do you know abut mandrake root?"

"Mandrake?" the physician said, surprised. "It is said that it can be used as an anesthetic, or to increase fertility – if one can get past the superstition that to dig the root from the ground is bad luck and results in demonic possession." He turned to give Merlin, still in the shadow of the doorway, a questioning look.

Merlin held out his black-smeared fingertips, and Gaius immediately grasped his apprentice's hand to sniff at the substance. "It was hanging under the bed," Merlin said; they shared a significant look, and Gaius turned again to stare at the king.

"If you are not mistaken about the root," the physician said slowly, moving closer, "it is my guess that the mandrake has been enchanted to affect the king's mind. To pierce the very recesses of the soul, twisting the unconscious into the very image of fear and dread."

Arthur shuddered in spite of himself. "But she took it," he said, and heard the plea in his voice. "Morgana's been crowned, my father is – obviously – not a threat any longer, perhaps…" He stopped at the old man's decisive shake of the head.

"If that is what has been done, it is a sorcery that requires daily renewal to retain maximum potency," Gaius said.

"And because she knows you come to see him at this time," Merlin added grimly, "she takes the root before you arrive, so you don't find it."

"You mean," Arthur said deliberately, his hand tightening on his hilt as a hot anger rose in his chest, "that she will be back to put another root–"

"Or the same one, soaked again," Merlin added.

Arthur continued, "Under my father's bed again? Soon?"

Merlin's head snapped around. "Arthur, _no_," he said immediately.

"Sire, you cannot risk an altercation," Gaius said worriedly. "Not here, not the two of you alone against a High Priestess and the Medhiri. Not in your condition."

"I'm fine," Arthur said, and he felt it. The anger spread, and hardened, and he felt very calm.

"Arthur," Gaius said, taking a step closer. "I promise you, I will return after she does, and remove the root."

"And burn it," Merlin advised in a low voice.

"This will return my father to full health?" Arthur asked.

Gaius hesitated. "I have not dealt personally with this magic before, my lord, it is impossible to state with certainty the result of any course of action – but at least the removal of the root will mean that no further harm will be done. I could research to see if any medicine might reverse the effects of the enchantment…"

It would also mean, Arthur thought distantly, that they would have twenty-four hours in which to act, before the witch knew that someone had tampered with her spell. Then Gaius really would be in danger. He turned to look down at his father again. Uther looked old. And broken.

Gaius set his case on the bedside table, opening it and withdrawing a tiny bottle very like the one he'd given Merlin for Arthur. Unstoppering it, the old physician cradled the king's head, and decanted the sleeping draught down Uther's throat. Arthur's father swallowed, and looked at none of them – but after a moment, he closed his eyes.

"Can we take him with us?" Arthur said to Merlin, without looking at him. Perhaps the cave did not have all the comforts of the royal bedchamber, but he still wanted Uther as far away from Morgause as he could get.

Returning the little vial to his case and securing it again, Gaius said, "I advise against it, sire. To be able to treat him, I have to –"

"Can we take both of them?" He met Merlin's eyes, and the young sorcerer held his gaze, troubled.

"Arthur," the physician said, almost sternly, adjusting the long strap of his round case over his shoulder. "I will need access to my equipment and supplies, certain books–"

"Go get them," he told the old man, ushering him to the door. "Bring them with you."

"Don't you think you're being a bit unreasonable?" Merlin said softly.

"Unreasonable." A laugh climbed up his throat, harsh and fatalistic. "Under the circumstances, Merlin, I believe I'm behaving very reasonably indeed. But you know what? Why don't you and Gaius stay here and be reasonable, and I'll do as a knight and a warlord's son should – I'll go challenge my enemy, and fight to regain my throne. A powerful witch, and seven undying bodyguards, and my little sister."

Merlin slipped around to block Arthur from the door, motioning for his mentor to prepare to depart. "_No_ – and it's time for us to go. Goodbye, Gaius – hurry back to the tower, she's going to feel it when we leave."

Arthur found himself thinking of the very brief fistfight he'd had with the younger man, when they were boys and strangers, questing in the tunnels of Dinas Emrys, wondering whether the lanky sorcerer was still as incapable of physically defending himself as he had been seven years ago, or whether he'd feel no compunctions about using magic on Arthur, now.

"You go, or you stay," he told him. "But get the hell out of my way. That's an order."

Merlin's blue eyes sparked with rare disobedience. And temper. "No, the hell with your orders," he told Arthur. "You're coming with me."

Arthur anticipated the sorcerer's intention and tried to step back, but Merlin's grip was unyielding as he chanted the spell. His eyes blazed gold, and the air in the small space whirled dustily around them, choking Arthur's last threat in his throat as Merlin took him out of Camelot as quickly and silently as they had entered.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen sat with Freya and Isolde near the fire. After a brilliant afternoon spent in the little clearing at the mouth of the cave, complete with a quarter-hour's rain-shower, the cave was less comfortable that evening. Smoke from the fire in the cave gathered; it was not so bad, Gwen reflected, as to make eyes sting or lungs labor, and the smells of drying meat and roots and berries was better than that of the cleaning that had been done outside, earlier.

A fire was unnecessary for heat or food, but the men were occupied with organizing preparations for dinner, for the meal the following morning, supplies for the ride out. Though no mention was made of the next day's dinner, conjecture on where they would be in twenty-four hours unvoiced. In which direction, no one asked, and no one said, because that decision would be their captain's, and Arthur hadn't returned.

And therein lay the discomfort. Hours had passed, while they all essentially waited. Alertly, not idly, but still with an expectant glance at each other's returning footsteps.

The sun had disappeared behind the trees, beyond the edge of the earth. Dusk had deepened toward dark, and Leon and Lancelot had herded the rest of them into the cave. Tristan had ridiculed their unspoken consent to wait on their absent leader to eat, and Gwaine had snapped at him, and Freya and Isolde had begun to serve the food to distract tempers and empty bellies, both.

Freya and Isolde. Gwen watched the two with passive curiosity; they were both so different, and yet in some ways very much alike. Freya so dark and Isolde so fair, the girl from Gwen's town using the heat of the fire to dry the leaves of several plants she'd found – medicinal or edible, Gwen wasn't sure – while Isolde casually stroked a finer edge on her twelve-inch dagger with a rounded stone. Freya so sweet and Isolde subtly sarcastic – but both were quiet, intuitive, and ready to be friends.

A boot scraped at the entrance to the outer passageway, and all three of them looked up at once, but though the figure that emerged was tall and lean, he walked with the tread of a stalking wolf rather than a gawky colt, and the thatch of hair on his head was straw-colored.

Tristan. He came toward them, seeming oblivious to the sigh of disappointment that breathed about the cavern , and passed Isolde – pausing only momentarily to hand her a long slender stem topped with a cluster of bluebell flowers.

"What's this for?" she asked, twisting to watch him walk away toward the side of the chamber the two smugglers had claimed. He tossed a youthful smile over his shoulder and shrugged, spreading his hands to give an answer that didn't require words.

Isolde turned back to the two of them with a glance and a smile that was self-conscious and feminine, sharing, without any of them speaking, the special knowledge of what she'd just been told in the language of flowers.

"Now what do I do with this?" she remarked, twirling the stem.

Freya moved closer to take the sprig from her and begin to thread individual blossoms into the blonde braid hanging over Isolde's shoulder. "Does he do this often?" the dark-haired girl murmured. Isolde huffed, shrugging her shoulders and rolling her eyes, but a smile lurked around her mouth.

The sweet spontaneity and utter frivolity of the smuggler's gesture woke a curious longing in Gwen's heart, and she said to Freya, "Has anyone ever given you flowers?"

Even in the dim light of the fire, Gwen could tell that the younger girl's face was pinker than it had been before the question. "Yes," she said, with the slightest hint of a question to the word, as if she wasn't entirely sure about the accuracy of her claim.

"Brothers don't count," Isolde said slyly, and Freya gave a snort and a toss of her head, fixing another blossom in the blonde hair.

"No, it wasn't Gwaine."

Isolde, her eyes on Gwen as if they shared a secret the younger girl didn't know, said with false innocence, "Who, then?"

Freya fumbled the stem, and leaned to pick it up, muttering, "Oh, dear."

Isolde mouthed a name toward Gwen, and she bit back a smile. Merlin. It was sweet, and amusing to think of the lanky black-haired boy handing a bouquet to the shy girl, then shrugging an answer to her question, _what's this for_.

_No reason. To make you smile. So you'd know I was thinking of you, and didn't mind everyone knowing that I love you._

Arthur hadn't. Gwen scolded herself, _we've known each other less than two weeks_. And agreeing to consider arranging a marriage was hardly the same sort of relationship that Tristan and Isolde had, or even that Merlin and Freya appeared to be drifting toward.

"How did the two of you meet?" Gwen asked Isolde, nodding toward the lean smuggler as he approached Gwaine, attempting with Percival to sort through the abandoned treasure for anything of immediate use.

"We were business rivals." Isolde's smile said she knew they would know that _business_ was an overly generous term for the reality she was describing. "One night our paths crossed – a storm held us up in the same town, one tavern serving hot meals and offering beds. Once we got past the ridicule and the insults –" again that small, private smile – "we hatched a riskier scheme that would require cooperation to work. And we worked well together. Much better – and more successfully – than we had, apart." She looked over her shoulder toward Tristan, then turned back to add, "Two winters ago –"

She was interrupted by a brief but violent gust of wind, only a couple of paces outside the opening of the upper tunnel, a swirl of mist that solidified into the recognizable figures of Merlin and Arthur. Gwen was aware of the eager attentive reaction of the men, the way her own heart leaped up in glad relief – before she knew something was wrong.

In the space of an indrawn breath, when the pair appeared until the spell was complete, she realized the tension in their stance as they faced each other. Arthur leaning away and Merlin mid-step forward, reaching. Not at all like the way they'd left.

The moment the spell released, Arthur shoved the young sorcerer away with such vehemence that Merlin stumbled a step and had to catch himself on the wall of the cave.

Stunned, uncertain silence.

Arthur spun on his heel, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, and stalked through the cavern toward the lower tunnel to the spring. His expression like thunderous fury, his bearing stiff with offended majesty. Ignoring them all.

She wasn't the only one who looked to Merlin for an explanation. He made a motion as if to reach for the prince, and stopped. There was an exquisite pain on his face, but not a hint of anger or resentment toward Arthur, only compassionate understanding. Clearly he wanted to offer sympathy or apology, and just as clearly felt there was some reason why he couldn't.

They had both returned safely, but – what else had happened? 

…..*…..

**A/N: I wondered for a bit there if I was going to have a whole chapter from Arthur's pov!...**

**Some dialogue from ep.3.1-2 "The Tears of Uther Pendragon", 3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." **

Guest: Here's my thing with the knights. I find it easiest to write Leon, Percival, and Gwaine, because their characters seem so distinctive, to me at least. Leon is the calm, loyal right-hand man. Percival is the strong silent type, Gwaine's a bit of a devil. Lancelot has always seemed too much like Leon to me – quiet and respectful and dependable and always appropriate – but there's always the love triangle hump to get over, if you're a dyed-in-the-wool Arwen writer like I am. This part of this fic is my attempt to do him justice. And Elyan, I never could get a decent handle on how he was different from the others, either. Even though he's a lord's son for this fic, I've written him, intentionally or not, pretty unassertive. That moment you questioned, when he's giving Merlin water, that's actually a bit from canon that probably doesn't fit very well without a bit more supporting prose to explain it; that scene needed to move quickly and I felt it was dragging, I probably should've just cut it…

In any case, I'm glad you're enjoying the characterizations, I sometimes have had/am having difficulty with so many actors onstage at once, so to speak.

I do like mature, understanding Arthur also! I loved him for the series (arrogant and oblivious and sometimes even childish), but oftener turn to this characterization in my writing – knowing about Merlin's magic seems to have this affect on him. And I like it in Merlin's character, that he tries to lighten the mood with humor…


	20. Out of the Darkness

**Chapter 20: Out of the Darkness **

_Merlin and Arthur had both returned safely, but – what else had happened?  
_

"His leg is better," Gwen heard Freya whisper, uncertainly trying to offer hope. "He's hardly limping."

Gwen watched Arthur disappear down the mouth of the lower tunnel, and along with everyone else, looked back at Merlin – who didn't seem to notice the attention. Leon approached swiftly to ask some question, which Merlin answered, adding a simultaneous shrug and shake of his head. Then Leon turned and followed the prince, at a slower pace, and Merlin came toward the fire, ducking out of the shoulder-string of a cloth sack.

"I guess we're too late for dinner," he said cheerfully to the chamber at large, and hunkered down not far from the fire, to reach into the mouth of the bag. "But – I've brought some bread, some candles. Some soap." He grinned at the girls, the reflection of firelight making his eyes look darker, somehow.

"For breakfast," Isolde decided, peeking at the loaf of bread wrapped in a white cloth, before wrapping it back up again. Freya took the soap and stood to carry it to their designated washing corner, a large gem-rimmed ewer filled with now-cool water. Gwen accepted the candles.

"It was bad?" she said to Merlin. Of course the news was Arthur's to tell, when he was ready, and to whom he chose. Her concern was less for information than for the prince's state of mind.

"Morgana was crowned queen this afternoon," Merlin stated neutrally, his voice clear enough to carry to the other men, who were drawing close. It was a fact, not a secret, but told Gwen what she needed to know.

If anyone else held doubts or questions, at least they were not callous enough to ask, in that moment. The grim truth of the king's condition was there, as well as the shock of the prince's diminished status and authority. In one sentence was revealed the loss of Arthur's father, his family, and his expectations for the future. And she thought she knew him well enough by now to guess which bothered him most.

"It was my fault," Merlin added, not looking up from the few tongues of licking flame in the fire, twisting and joining and separating hypnotically. "Lord – um, someone saw me this morning, when we were fighting. Evidently a wanted criminal less than half a day from the city constitutes a crisis that needs a monarch to handle."

"But he's not angry with _you_," Gwen clarified.

He shook his head slowly, but his eyes were sad as he lifted them to hers. "Not really, but…"

Gwen understood. She'd seen without fully understanding the bond they shared. It was _safe_ for Arthur to be angry with Merlin. So that's how it came out.

She rose, gathering up the candles he'd brought with him, and lit the longest from the fire. She lit the others from the first, and paced the periphery of the chamber, wedging the stubs into convenient cracks and niches. A shadow warned her of company as she placed the last one, and the female smuggler leaned nonchalantly against the rough stone wall on the other side of the candle.

"Two winters ago," Isolde took up her story as if the interruption had never occurred, "Tristan caught a lung fever. In bed for two weeks. Raving, part of the time. Fighting for breath, part of the time. Weak as a kitten. For the first time, both of us realized that he needed me, as well."

Sir Leon reappeared, and crossed immediately to join Merlin by the fire, beginning what looked to be a very serious conversation, which drew the others closer to listen. She supposed Arthur had told Leon of the afternoon's events, or at least had passed permission to Merlin through the senior knight to do so.

Isolde gave Gwen a secretive smile. "I wish you the best of luck, my lady, I really do." Gwen watched the blonde woman join the men, squatting down at Tristan's side.

Then she turned and headed for the lower tunnel. Past the dark sealed gates that blocked the various burial vaults.

She found Arthur by the spring, at the edge of the glow of the last torch left by the water source for everyone's convenience. He stood leaning on an outcropping, none of his weight resting on his injured leg, his arms crossed over his chest. She paused a moment, behind him in the passage, reminded of his first night in Lionys, leaning on the balcony railing below hers, weighed down with concern for the safety of his friend.

He glanced at her as she moved around him to seat herself on a low boulder to his left, and she saw again the weight of concern – this time for the wellbeing of far more than just one man.

"I – apologize, my lady," Arthur said, a bit slowly and stiffly. "While in my care you have not experienced the level of safety and comfort you must have expected, and which I ought to have provided."

Her heart ached at the hint of shame she heard in his apology. "Arthur," she said reproachfully, "it's just _me_. Not some fine lady with a maid and a hairdresser and a seamstress and a cook and two carriages and five tents." She saw a smile try to show, and was satisfied. "We have shelter and provision – I have nothing to complain about."

He huffed gently. "In the morning," he said to her, his eyes on the welling spring below them, "I want Lancelot to take the rest of your party back to Lionys."

She didn't protest. She had no intention of leaving him, not now, not like this, but now was not the time to argue about it. "It was very bad?" she asked again.

He snorted. "Even worse. Morgause is in Camelot."

Gwen's shiver had nothing to do with the damp of the spring or the chill of the darkness. The high priestess was a far worse enemy, in her opinion, than any two kings in all the land.

"My father is under a spell," he continued, his tone bitter. "Her damn dark magic. He's no better than a sleepwalker. And my sister, and my…" Arthur stopped, and blinked.

"What's the matter?" she said.

"Gaius said, the night they first received word of – my death – my father suffered a…" He grimaced, setting his teeth as his nostrils flared. "Guinevere, that was _before_ Morgause arrived. There was… someone else. There must have been, to put the enchantment in place." He didn't move, exactly, but now it seemed as though he sagged against the wall, rather than leaning on it. And he closed his eyes.

She stood and moved closer. "Do you know who," she said softly.

"One man… Told my father his son was dead. Told Gaius my father was broken. Probably told the council the same thing, probably pushed them to send for my sister… and he's been after her for years to marry him, who knows what he's told her." He shuddered, and Gwen put her hand on his upper arm in concern. "He's meant to be guarding our border _against_ Odin… and twice in the past year we've suspected Odin's men of attacks on our land…" He looked at her then, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears in the torchlight. "My _uncle_, Gwen."

"Lord Agravaine," she whispered, trying to hide her shock and revulsion, for his sake.

"My uncle is a traitor," he said hollowly. "My sister has taken my throne, and my father is… gone." His jaw clenched, and she heard what he hadn't said aloud – _I am alone._

"Come," she told him, letting her hand slide down his arm, finding his hand tucked into his other elbow. "I want to show you something."

He allowed her to lead him back up the tunnel, his fingers cold and unresponsive in hers, and she stopped within the shadow of the passage, where none might notice them until they stepped out.

"What?" he said, after a moment.

"Just… look."

In the center of the chamber, near the fire, Merlin knelt next to Isolde, examining the wound he'd stitched on her arm, as she craned her neck to see whatever he was telling her about. Freya sat on her heels at Merlin's elbow, with a fresh bandage and a dish of mixed herbs, as Tristan stood behind his lady, leaning forward to bicker comfortably with the young sorcerer – who looked up and flashed a grin.

To the right, Percival and Gwaine were shifting some of the abandoned pieces of treasure, uncovering more of what had been buried in the heap. Nearer, Leon crouched in close counsel with Lancelot and Elyan, in a pool of light from one of the candles she'd positioned earlier, drawing on the stone floor with the charred end of a slender stick.

She watched Arthur watch for a moment, then stepped closer and said to him softly, "You have a family yet, Arthur. You are not alone."

Moments passed in the murmur of voices, the dim flicker and glow of light. Arthur's breathing, and her breathing, and the gradual, infinitesimal relaxing of tension from his muscles.

"Perhaps," he said, as if to himself, barely above a whisper, "we should all return to Lionys. I am no more than a knight, anymore… I have nothing to offer you."

She said boldly, "I'll take it, anyway."

He looked at her, then offered the faintest of smiles and lifted his hand to brush his knuckles lightly over her cheek. "Thank you."

"Whatever you decide," she told him, "we are with you."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was Gwaine who woke Freya, the next morning, before it could properly be called morning, though it was quite unintentional.

She hadn't slept well since they'd all organized what minimal bedding there was, rough protective canvas and fine dust-clogged rugs, and extinguished half the candles, banked the fire, and laid down. She and Lady Guinevere shared a rug, with Gwaine and Elyan close by on either side. Isolde with Tristan, who surprisingly had offered to take a turn at watch, at the mouth of the cave, a stone's toss along the cave wall, and the other five men across the cavern.

Freya had been aware of the first two changes of watch, her sleep fitful enough to admit the movement of the men, the whispered exchange. But when Gwaine stretched himself out on the floor next to her with a stifled groan to get a few hours sleep before dawn, she woke more fully, even as his breathing evened and slowed toward snoring.

She rolled to her back to look up at the mottled shadow-and-glow of the ceiling of the chamber. Mention of the high priestess worried her. And whatever had happened in Camelot – whatever they had seen, or done, or learned – it seemed to her that the relationship between the prince and the sorcerer was fractured.

Arthur was no longer certain of what he wanted, and where his responsibility lay. The compassion and the loyalty had been strong and fierce, she'd seen, but the _royalty_ had been shaken.

And Merlin. Conflicted as well. For different reasons, or the same reasons, or because of Arthur's turmoil, she wouldn't venture to guess. But though his loyalty and determination were fairly blinding, she sensed that his magic was restlessly eager – with no clear goal. And, in this case, she rather suspected that his humility was undermining his confidence.

She shivered, imagining how she'd feel if she was expected to face a high priestess and seven undying knights in the middle of her home, surrounded by innocent people she cared about, but who were all expected to try to kill her.

Freya sat up, then, drawing her knees up to hug them to her chest, wishing there was something she could do. Her eyes wandered the cavern, waiting for inspiration and receiving none. It was not unlike the chamber below Alator's house, though of course there was no manacled block. She rather missed the sand; it might have been more comfortable than the thinly-padded stone. She thought also of the first night she'd met Merlin.

Her nightmare. His nightmare. The lighthearted comfort of his magic playing with light and shadow to lull her to sleep. The confinement of his magic as he writhed and moaned in the torture of the curse.

Freya's attention focused on the men asleep in the row against the far wall. Four. But the agreement had been for Gwaine to turn the watch over to Tristan. She shifted her weight forward over her feet, studying the sleeping figures, then rose.

He wasn't there with the others.

Well, there were only two possibilities. That he had left the cave entirely, or that he'd taken the lower passage toward the spring.

She'd taken off her boots to sleep, and padded carefully over the rough stone floor in her stocking feet. One of the row of men was snoring energetically; she smiled to herself, considering if it was the prince, what Guinevere would have to look forward to. Only, probably she would have the option of separate bedchambers.

Somewhat distracted by her thoughts, her hurry to pass the sealed section, and because both the thicker shadows in the passageway and his own immobility served to hide him from notice, Freya very nearly ran into Merlin.

He was leaning with his back against the other wall of the tunnel, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his head lowered, his gaze fixed on the masonry blocking the ancient sorcerer's tomb from view and access. She stopped at arms' length from him, and opened her mouth to ask if he was all right, to observe that he wasn't sleeping.

But what came out was, "What are you doing?"

She was quite sure he knew she was there, she was quite sure he'd heard her, even as quiet as her whisper had been, but he gave no sign of it.

Then she found she could answer her own question, and asked the next one that came to her – "What are you thinking about? Merlin?"

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, but didn't meet her eyes. "Magic," he said mildly. She waited without speaking, and after a moment she thought his gaze shifted to her briefly, but in the dim passage she couldn't be sure. "It has always been to me like light and freedom and hope… The druids guard their secrets with care, with stern warnings and complicated rituals. Gaius cautions me often about seeking a solution apart from magic, first. The priestesses…" he paused, and then his voice held a hard edge, as if he kept it low and even with an effort. "Seem to devote their lives to plotting and manipulating, their magic selfish and twisted as if they have no fear of the consequences of irresponsibly using magic that ought to be prohibited!"

Freya thought of Mary Collins, educated on the isle. Raising her son to deal with slave-traders and accept pay to kill princes. A mild, even kindly old woman content to serve in the palace kitchen until the day the one person she loved was taken from her – and then chose to end her life in a chaos of curses and murder, causing as much suffering to those she held responsible as possible.

"Last night," Merlin continued, "the prince asked me –" the way he said _asked_, Freya intuitively guessed it was closer to _begged_ – "to use magic to heal his father. And I couldn't. When I met Uther, I had to beg him to let me heal Arthur… He once said to me, sorcery twists the mind and motivation – he was right not to trust it. Maybe… maybe he was right."

"Oh, _Merlin_," she exclaimed, in soft distress.

"Do you know how many times magic has been used against Camelot, against the king, against Arthur?" he said, pushing away from the wall, his eyes fastened on her, now. "Maybe the rest are right, and I'm wrong. I did nothing for Uther – I did nothing for Arthur except take him from his father and his home without his consent – how can I expect him to trust me anymore?"

"You know he does," she protested reproachfully. "You know it."

"Morgause contracted for her sister's brother to be killed," he said. "And even now, her magic twists the mind of her sister's father to break and ruin him. When Morgana left Camelot to study with the priestesses, she said, I hope I will always be welcome to visit Camelot, she told Uther, I will always be your daughter. And after four months with the high priestess on the isle, Morgana can watch her uncle take the crown from her father's head and hand it to her sister to place on her own head without blinking. And sit her brother's throne."

It hurt her to hear the cynical self-doubt in his words. She wanted to cry or shake him. Or both at once. "What are you afraid of?" Freya asked. "You could never betray Arthur."

He twisted uncomfortably. "What about unintentionally?" he whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"It is because of me that every loyal knight will be trying to kill him," he said. "Because of the mistrust of my magic, to make a pretender appear the prince."

"It is because of Morgause," Freya said firmly.

"I killed Nimueh," he said, and she froze in shock, the next moment thankful that it was too dark for him to see her reaction. "She conjured the Questing Beast to bite Arthur fatally, so I would come to the isle and she could trick me into some twisted agreement to give her control of my life and my magic… I was angry and desperate – I was lucky not to end up dead, or kill anyone else nearby. Her skill and knowledge was greater than mine – so is Morgause's, and she's ruthless. And she's Morgana's sister."

Freya wasn't sure she completely understood, the story or the meaning he evidently gave it. "So…"

"So when Arthur decides on a plan and we go into Camelot, I will have to defeat Morgause without putting anyone else's life at risk – which she won't care about – stop her from killing anyone without killing her myself. And then there's Agravaine and Morgana to worry about, and…"

"And…" Freya repeated. Now maybe they were getting to the root of Merlin's worry. The quality of magic and his comparative lack of knowledge – though not strength, she believed – his fear for others' safety and primarily Arthur's, all led to…

"The Medhiri," he said, and there was a bleak despair in his voice, in the way he collapsed slowly back against the wall. "They cannot be killed. My magic… I can only hinder them, delay them and slow them – but _seven_, Freya. And Morgause also! How can I – Men are going to be _killed_. Maybe our knights, maybe our friends…" He turned to look past her, up the passage where the others slept.

She didn't know what to say. She knew nothing of the Knights of Medhir, couldn't even offer ideas, much less a viable solution. She thought of the two of them sitting together on the parapet of the roof – _Do you believe in destiny? Sometimes I don't know what to believe… It is worth it, though, isn't it?_

Freya reached to touch his arm, pull gently downward as she first knelt, then leaned sideways on her arm. He resisted only a moment before dropping down beside her on the stone floor of the passage, his long legs crossed between them.

"Who are they?" she asked. "Where did Morgause find such knights?"

He leaned forward, clasping his arms around his knees. "Hundreds of years ago," he started, his eyes once again fixed on the wall opposite. "Seven knights swore to the service of a sorceress. They were unstoppable, wreaking untold chaos." He spoke slowly, pausing between the sentences as if so focused on his story he paid only cursory attention to the words. Or as if his mind was occupied with something else at the same time.

She shivered, the chill from the stone creeping up her legs, and scooted closer to him. "What happened?"  
"The sorceress was killed. But not the knights. They finally retreated to the fortress of Idirsholas and… stilled. Three hundred years passed before the fires of Idirsholas were lit, and the smoke rose again. Last year. The seven knights were gone when Arthur and I got there…"

"Raised by Morgause?" she asked, and he nodded. She was still cold; she dared to bring her legs alongside his, and lean lightly on his knee. "Do you know how she woke them? How she controls them?" she asked.

"Maybe she claimed their souls for her own, forcing their wills to yield and destroy at her command… More I cannot say. It is dark magic, dangerous to study or research even for defense."

She hummed thoughtfully. "Do you know what magic the first sorceress used? How she made them?"

He shook his head. "If anyone ever knew, it has been long lost. And what is once made, cannot be unmade."

It sounded bleak. Perhaps their only hope was to kill Morgause and wait for the knights to fall inactive again. It was an odd concept to her, that a once-living creature could wait for centuries before returning to some form of life, feeding perhaps off the life or magic of another. It stirred a sense of the familiar in her, and an uneasiness.

She leaned closer, but failed to catch his attention from the wall that hid another chamber… the resting place for another consciousness… an evil twisted magic… bodiless and undying. Trapped.

Merlin had warned her away from this sealed doorway – and yet here he sat, staring at it intently. Pondering the nature of magic and doubting his adequacy.

He murmured, "I wonder if I could hold him long enough –"

"Merlin, don't you dare!" She thumped his knee with her fist, frightened at the sudden dreadful realization that flooded her. "You can't! You can't even think like that!"

"Wouldn't you?" His eyes bored into hers, only inches away. "Do whatever it takes, to protect those you care about? Whatever it takes?"

"You'd not just be risking your life," she said pleadingly. "You'd be risking your soul, Merlin, it's not worth it, and think what the consequences would be if you lost _that_ fight. Please. You're worried about facing several threats at once, you can't add another. Fighting an evil with a greater evil will never work."

His face twisted with the agony of uncertainty. "What do I do, then? What can I do? Because I'm failing Arthur already!"

Well, how did you kill something that couldn't be killed? "Why can't they die?" she whispered.

"Because they're not alive," he answered, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. "It's a question of cutting them off from the magic sustaining them – it can't be done, except by the person who worked the enchantment."

But they once were alive – and if they weren't any longer – that meant they were already – _cut them off_ – "You need a weapon that will kill something that is already dead," she said.

He stared at her, stunned, his mouth actually dropped open, and she fairly watched hope well up in him. Lit with a sudden enthusiasm, he reached forward to take her face between his hands and planted a decisive kiss firmly on her mouth. She had one instant to feel the pleasant roughness of his fingertips, breathe the scent of him, begin to respond to the pressure and movement of his lips on hers, before he was yanking her to her feet, pulling her behind him up the passage to the cavern.

"_Arthur_!" Merlin cried.

The prince rolled awake and standing in the blink of an eye, sword in his hand as if he'd slept that way. It was the tone of the word, Freya thought, more than the fact or even the suddenness of it, that had the others reacting instantly also. But Merlin took no notice of them, bounding to Arthur's side.

"The sword," he continued, with the same wild eagerness that had woken everyone. "_Your_ sword." Merlin actually laughed, throwing his head back and daring to give the prince a little shake of emphasis. "_Why_ didn't I think of it sooner?"

"It was effective against the wraith," Arthur said, somewhat numbly, as if he were still half-asleep – the sorcerer's sense of optimism hadn't reached him, yet. "Will it work against Morgause's knights?"

"We don't know until we try," Merlin answered, but instead of grim despair there was fierce delight that made Freya smile in spite of the situation. At least he was no longer contemplating trying to use that dead sorcerer's evil power.

Arthur focused on him, and lifted his hand to grip the young sorcerer momentarily by the upper arm. And just that fast, the fracture that Freya had sensed was gone. Merlin spun and strode for the upper tunnel.

"Merlin – wait," Arthur called after him, and he paused expectantly, only half-turning. "What do you think you're doing?" The others were gathering, leaving their makeshift beds one by one. Freya moved closer also, meeting Guinevere's sleepy questioning look.

"I'm going to get the sword," Merlin said.

"It's a day's ride there and another back," Arthur said. "What about provisions? And I suppose you expect the rest of us to sit here and wait for you?"

Merlin's grin was brilliant, and for Arthur alone. "I had no intention of riding a _horse_," he said. "I was going to call Aithusa. Three hours – maybe four – at the most."

Leon stepped to Arthur's side. "If we're returning to Camelot, sire, it would be advisable to scout the land between here and there for any more mercenary bands –"

"Or for more of those black knights," Lancelot added gravely, placing himself at Leon's side.

"And have a look at the city itself," Leon continued, "what changes might have been made with the guard, and so on. I can go and be back by noon –"

"Not alone," Arthur said. "You're right, though, Leon, I would like to have a look at our defenses myself. This will be Morgana's first day as queen, at the very least it will be informative to –"

"Arthur," Merlin interrupted; he'd drifted back to join the circle of men closing about the prince. "I have a different idea. What if you go to Dinas Emrys – it's your sword, after all – that way I can go with Leon –"

"With Leon and me," Gwaine interjected. Freya gave a little huff of proud exasperation in her brother, that only Gwen beside her was meant to hear, and the lord's daughter rolled her eyes sympathetically.

"We can watch each other's backs, and you'll be much safer with Aithusa than trying to avoid mercenaries and Medhiri without me." Arthur crossed his arms, but Merlin added, sounding a little sly to Freya's ears, "And you were shot just yesterday… you're not afraid to fly with Aithusa, are you?"

Fly – dragon. Freya gasped in her next breath, realizing that the young dragonlord intended to call one of those fabulous and awesome creatures of magic, to ride one. She looked to see that Gwen had a similar expression of wondering anticipation.

"My lord," Lancelot said, "I would be honored to offer my service at Sir Leon's side for this scouting mission –"

"And I," Percival said, in his deep, serious voice, rising from adding wood to their mid-cavern campfire.

"And I," Elyan added.

"Very impressive," Tristan drawled from the mouth of the cave, as Isolde stepped from him with a quiet, secretive smile. She glanced an unspoken message of her intention at Gwen and Freya as she made her way to the cleared edge of a table protruding from the mound of treasures, where they'd laid out the supplies for the morning meal. "Everyone is willing to risk their life for a man who is nameless and penniless. You're very persuasive."

"Throw your lot in with us, Tristan," Gwaine invited, with a grin that made Freya cringe, "do something useful for someone else for a change, without thinking of the reward –"

"Says the hired sword," the smuggler answered mockingly, unfazed.

"Or shut the hell up," Gwaine finished.

"Another fighter would be more than welcome," Leon said mildly.

"If the promise of recompense when my position is restored isn't good enough for you," Arthur said, and Freya suspected he didn't bother trying to hide the sarcasm, "you can take your pick of that lot." He waved a hand toward the piled objects at the far end of the cave.

Tristan looked past them all to meet Isolde's gaze. Her expression didn't change from arch amusement, but he appeared to have gotten some answer to his unspoken question. "It'll be a day or so until Isolde is well enough for us to leave," he admitted grudgingly. "And since it is your fault that I am penniless also, I suppose I'll ride along to have a look around Camelot. For my pick," he added sardonically, "of that lot."

"That's settled then," Merlin said, as the others began to move away to various early-morning tasks and arrangements. Freya took one step toward Isolde and the breakfast preparations, assuming that the three of them would share the more feminine chore of cooking.

Gwen caught her sleeve, her expression a curious mix of excited longing and nervous trepidation. "I'm going to ask Arthur if I can go with him," she whispered.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

No one had asked and no one had said, but Gwen believed that each and every one privately felt as thrilled and anxious as she did, at the prospect of meeting a dragon.

Merlin didn't exactly wait for them, after the cold breakfast eaten in haste and hope. Past the invisible protection of magic lingering around the clearing by the mouth of the cave, away from the horses which could be expected to panic, the young sorcerer's leggy stride unexpectedly swift and quiet through the underbrush. She remembered Arthur telling her, the day they'd met, _Merlin was raised a druid; he didn't live in a city until he came to Camelot. _He glanced over his shoulder a few times, but only to assure himself of Arthur's presence.

And since she stayed next to Arthur, the young sorcerer's smile encompassed her, too.

That was a relief, Gwen realized. It was purely selfish to be glad that she could claim friendship with such an extraordinary young man, but she was thankful also that Arthur's best friend approved of her – for all their sakes.

When Merlin reached a larger glen, he paused – not to allow the rest to catch up, to find a place to stand where they felt comfortable – only to fill his lungs. Then he braced himself, tipped his head to the sky, and bellowed out a long phrase that was deep and commanding and ancient-sounding.

It stirred Gwen's blood in a way that was not unpleasant, and she found, by the end of it, that she'd grabbed for Arthur's hand. The prince glanced down at their laced fingers, then over at her with a sympathetic amusement. Beyond him, she saw that Freya had taken her brother's entire arm, and was peering out from behind him in fascinated anticipation.

_ Whump. Whump._

"Brace yourselves," Gwaine advised laconically.

The others were scanning the sky visible through the treetops in all directions. Merlin stood absolutely still; Gwen thought his eyes might be closed. She thought there might have been a faint smile on his face, but from five or six yards away, she couldn't tell for sure.

Then the sky over the glen lightened in a flash of dazzling white, even as a shadow fell. The earth trembled under Gwen's boots and the wind gusted, her eyes tearing with airborne dust particles, as the enormous glittering creature landed. The dragon was of a size to see comfortably into a second-story window when crouched on its – _his_ – hind legs, and muscular enough, she suspected, to snatch a running yearling deer right off the ground. The rounded spikes that rose from the back of his skull to protect his spine, like teeth and claws, were a smooth gleaming ivory, while the scales that covered him shone almost iridescent like a field of fresh snow under noon sunlight.

He seemed wary, his head swerving as he took in the strangers, but finally his serpentine tail curled around his feet as he sank over his forelegs. His eyes, a deep orange-gold, rested on Merlin, who hadn't moved or spoken, simply waiting for the dragon to adjust himself to the company.

And the young sorcerer who had summoned the dragon by the sound of his voice and the right of his blood _bowed_, slightly but deliberately, without taking his eyes from the dragon's face. Despite the young man's ungainly frame and the somewhat-shabby peasant's clothes, Gwen found it surprisingly awe-inspiring, to watch Merlin bow to anyone.

The dragon lowered its head and eyes, clearly returning the courtesy with respectful obeisance. Gwen wondered if anyone else was breathing, because _she_ sure couldn't.

"You can all come out now," Merlin said clearly, looking toward them. A smile lurked around his mouth. "He'll need space again to take off, but we might as well not have to shout."

Arthur moved forward immediately, Gwen trailing him by reason of their linked hands. She was aware of the others moving into the open also, but she couldn't take her eyes off the dragon – the beauty, the power, the danger of him. She wondered if anyone else felt the creature was watching them exclusively. Or whether it was just her.

Merlin made introductions quickly, without explanation or apology, and it might have been Gwen's imagination that the dragon's attention lingered on her. And on Freya.

Aithusa shifted, flexing his arms-length foreclaws, and Tristan and Elyan both took half a step back, ignored by the creature and its young lord, both. "The witch has Camelot within her grasp," the dragon said, his voice the gravelly rasp of one great stone block being positioned upon another, sending little shivery chills up Gwen's spine. "She cannot keep it. Kilgarrah will not leave the hill, Merlin, you know that, but I am yours to command."

"Hell, yes!" Gwen heard Gwaine mutter. "I'd like to see even a high priestess stand up to the likes of _him_!"

Whether Aithusa heard as well or not, the white dragon tilted his head in a way that made his head-spikes seem more prominent. Merlin took another step closer to him, tipping his head back a little more – and this made the young sorcerer look conversely more vulnerable.

"This battle is not for you to join, Aithusa," he said, though his voice carried to all of them. Gwaine grunted. Merlin's smile was sweetly disingenuous. "But I could ask you a favor?"


	21. Sword and Shield

**Chapter 21: Sword and Shield **

Gwen tried to listen as Merlin continued to explain to the large dragon the need they had – for Arthur to reclaim an enchanted sword – and the request – for Gwen to accompany him. The prince pulled her forward for both of them to join the dragonlord – why was it she had no problem thinking of Merlin as a sorcerer, but _dragonlord_ still brought an image to her mind of someone massive and bearded, decked in layers of fur? – and she couldn't shake the feeling that Aithusa was watching _her_.

But the closer she stepped, the more her perception of the magical creature overwhelmed her self-consciousness. The clarity and brilliance of the white scales no longer reminded her of sun on snow; she could feel the heat subtly radiating from him. To warm and comfort a friend – or to incinerate and destroy an enemy, with equal passion and steadfast loyalty. The shimmer of sunlight over the dragon, bone and muscle and claw, as he lowered his head to the ground, the large orange-gold eyes fixed on them, was the white-hot flicker of the heart of a bonfire, a forge. The sun.

"You can still change your mind," Arthur's voice said, the slightest hint of gentle teasing, and she looked up to see the prince already perched on Aithusa's neck, behind those skull-spikes and upward from winged shoulders.

"It's perfectly safe, Gwen, I promise," Merlin said from beside her. "He won't let you fall."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of that," Gwen said quickly. "He's just so –"

"Magnificent?" Aithusa rumbled, his teeth showing as long and thick as her forearm. "Breath-taking? Dazzling?"

"Vain?" Merlin murmured.

The great golden eye shifted, the vertical pupil narrowing as a smoky snort puffed from his nostrils to curl about the young sorcerer; Arthur chuckled as Merlin coughed and waved the air to clear it facetiously. Then he bent to form a stirrup with his hands and give her a leg up to the dragon's neck, Arthur reaching to provide her with a handhold.

She settled in behind the prince, legs and hips – and though she snatched at him as the dragon straightened to his full height without warning, she bit her lip on the startled squeak that threatened. Arthur's muscles felt tense against her, though he only shifted to retain balance with the dragon's movement, as he might have on a fractious stallion. The young dragonlord, the only one who'd approached Aithusa from the cover of the glen's overhanging branches, though Gwaine was a yard or so further forward than the others, stepped back.

Arthur called down to him, "Merlin – don't do anything stupid."

The younger man's grin flashed wide. "Me?" he protested innocently.

Gwen had one moment to think that Merlin hadn't actually agreed, when Aithusa leaped up, unfurling his great white sails of wings open behind her with a rippling snap. She felt compressed for an instant, and ducked down against Arthur's back, squeezing her eyes shut as the rush of air snatched breath from her body and filled her ears. For one heart-stopping moment she struggled, afraid she wouldn't be able to draw air into her lungs, then the dragon leveled out its climb into the sky and she jolted upward from her perch enough to gasp – and then she could breathe again.

They were _high_.

Much higher than her tower balcony, which overlooked the city. The treetops below them appeared to have the soft texture of green wool. The movement of the dragon's body as he beat his wings steadily was unsettling, though rhythmic, rushing through the cold upper air. She was thankful for her fur-trimmed vest, for Aithusa's heat seeping into her, for Arthur's broad warm back that she clutched close to her for stability also.

The brightness of the morning sun over Arthur's right shoulder and the steady cool stream of the wind made her eyes tear up. She blinked the moisture away to the corners, clearing her vision, and realized that Arthur had freed one arm from his grip of the central rounded spike on the back of Aithusa's skull to point, his blue eyes bright as the sky that surrounded them as he looked over his shoulder.

"Camelot!" he shouted down to her.

She leaned just a little to follow the line of his arm, and saw the white-stone citadel. It was beautiful, strong and delicate, and looked small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, at this distance; she wondered if _they_ were visible from there. She tightened her arms around Arthur's middle in comfort and support, both giving and receiving.

A moment and maybe several dozen miles later, he pointed again. "The Forest of Ascetir." She couldn't distinguish the landmark from the surrounding countryside, but it didn't seem to bother Arthur; he switched hands to point off to the left. "Valley of Chemery."

Gwen snuggled against the prince's back, watching him come to life in this new exploration, seeing more of his kingdom at once than he ever had before. Seeing how he loved the land, guessing that each briefly-shouted name held a story of adventure for him, memories good and bad, victory and loss.

She never wanted anything so much in all her life, than she wanted this man. To call him hers, to listen to these stories and learn these places for herself. Perhaps someday to be the reason for that boyish exuberance so smothered recently by the burden of hopeless responsibility.

He fell silent after a while, watching ahead. She realized her nose and the tips of her ears felt quite numb from the wind, and nuzzled into his back, though the thick leather of his dark vest wasn't exactly soft. He covered her hands clasped at the base of his breastbone with one of his.

With her eyes closed, the movement of the flying dragon was soporific, the press of her body to Arthur's soothingly delightful. She might even have been tempted to doze, were it not for the knowledge of their altitude and the less-than-comfortable scales-and-bones spinal ridge as her seat. She felt Arthur shift, felt his words as a faint warm breath stolen the next instant by the chill of the wind.

"The White Mountains," he said, pointing ahead of them. Now, those she could see. "Coming southeast – there. And Dinas Emrys at the end, overlooking the pass."

Gwen remembered the little he'd told her – _I left Camelot, I was captured. Merlin and I joined the squad meant to take the hilltop… descended to attack from the rear… I was wounded… _She shifted her left hand to a position over the scar on the prince's body; he didn't seem to notice.

Aithusa's wing-beats slowed, then stilled, the leathery membranes rippling as the dragon glided, tilting downward. They whooshed through the pass below the level of the hills – Gwen glimpsed part of a ruined wall on the bald brow of Dinas Emrys – and wriggled against Arthur to keep her balance as Aithusa banked to the right. She had just enough time to clench her teeth so she wouldn't bite through her tongue, and they landed with an earth-shaking jar that sent a flight of starlings skittering in panic from a nearby tree.

Arthur turned to twine his arm through hers as the dragon bent to the ground again, to aid her in dismounting. She slid sideways, her off leg clearing the backward-leaning ridge of the dragon's spine – and kept going, the drop to the ground farther than she'd anticipated. She staggered as the ground seemed to tilt under her, putting her hand out for balance – and encountering a scale-smooth foreleg, hard and steady as a tree-trunk.

"Thank you," she said breathlessly, stepping out of the way as Arthur leaped down – but the prince landed unsteadily, collapsing to hands and knees, reaching to the back of his left thigh. The arrow wound, she remembered. "Arthur?"

"Hells," he moaned, "now I know why he decided to ride a horse to Camelot instead." She sensed Aithusa's head swing round – Arthur must have also, for he added hastily, "Not that I'm not immensely glad for your help." He straightened, getting one leg then the other underneath him.

"As I am to give it, Prince Arthur," Aithusa said mildly. "But it was not the most agreeable of flights for me, either." The white dragon reared back, twisting his head on sinuous neck.

"But Merlin says –" Arthur protested.

"With Merlin it is different," Aithusa informed them inoffensively, continuing to stretch sinewy muscles before coiling up almost catlike, wings folded and tail curled. "He is not passenger, he is partner."

Arthur gave a small, courteous bow. "We'll try to be quick," he promised, beginning to hike uphill.

A rumble sounded inside the great beast, and Gwen suspected amusement. "You'll try."

As she followed the prince, she watched his limping gait gradually even out, and was satisfied that it was no more than lingering soreness after their unorthodox ride. They walked only twenty yards or so before a great cavern opened the hillside before them. Arthur paused just to look, hands on his hips, as she drew even with him.

"I haven't been here in seven years," Arthur told her. She didn't know how to respond, and so followed him silently to the mouth of the cave.

The darkness breathed, charcoal and sulfur, and moved, and Gwen found herself clutching Arthur's arm again, as her eyes focused and picked out the details of the greater dragon, larger than Aithusa by about a third, she guessed. His scales were the red-brown glow of dying coals, his eyes a yellow-green, showing intelligence at once ancient and alien, compassionate and clever.

Focused on her. Evaluating. And while Aithusa might have studied her for approval as a prospective mate for the friend of his friend, the great dragon's gaze stripped far deeper, for a graver purpose. This dragon weighed her potential as _queen_. She shivered, and thought, _I'm going to to do my best_…

"Kilgarrah," Arthur said, bowing to the great beast as he had to his younger kin.

"Circumstances are nothing but auspicious, young prince?" Kilgarrah's voice was slow irony, the rasp of age apparent to Gwen after hearing Aithusa's voice.

"Anything but," Arthur said, his lips twisting with the distasteful admission. "Once again. Kilgarrah, may I present the Lady Guinevere of Lionys."

Instead of the polite curtsy she would have made to a human male deserving her respect, Gwen found herself bowing at the waist as Arthur and Merlin had, watching those green-yellow eyes watch her.

"Your chosen queen," Kilgarrah said, and it wasn't a question.

"Yes," Arthur said, and she winced at the note of uncertainty in his voice.

"The betrothal isn't –" she began to explain.

"Remember, young Arthur, your death will not prevent the fulfillment of prophecy." Kilgarrah evidently understood Arthur's doubt a little better than Gwen had – she realized that the prince didn't know if he would live to fulfill a betrothal or marriage. "It is an honor to meet you, my lady. But why have you come here, so far and in such haste?"

"Morgause has awakened the Knights of Medhir," Arthur told him. "She has enchanted my father with mandrake and has put her sister upon the throne of Camelot."

Kilgarrah made a noise of polite disinterest. "My allegiance has never been with Camelot," he said neutrally.

For a moment, Arthur didn't speak. Gwen snuck a look a him in profile; she saw that his jaw was clenched, and wondered if he feared to ask the great dragon's allegiance for himself. If he feared to hear another answer in the negative after the devastating disappointments he'd suffered with the members of his family.

"But it is with Merlin," the prince finally said.

The great dragon blinked, and answered simply, "Yes."

Gwen breathed a sigh of relief. He _would_ help. Pledging to Merlin was just as good as pledging to Arthur.

"Thank you," Arthur said sincerely, sounding relieved himself. "I was hoping to retrieve the sword Merlin brought here a year and a half ago. He thought maybe such a weapon would be effective against the Medhiri."

"There is but one weapon that can slay something which is already dead," Kilgarrah agreed. "A blade forged in a dragon's breath."

Gwen experienced another wave of calming reassurance; he'd essentially confirmed their hope. _Already dead_, she repeated to herself, and repressed a shudder. Yes, that would make sense why they couldn't be killed – couldn't die again.

"It's in the chamber?" Arthur questioned, gesturing to the cave wall to their left, beginning to pick his way over the rubble on the floor.

"Even so." Kilgarrah shifted his great reddish mass, keeping his eyes on them.

She followed, uncomprehending, as Arthur ran his hands over the rough stone of the wall, shifted to his right. Then gasped, as his arm completely disappeared into the rock.

"Ah, here we are," the prince said, giving her a grin over his shoulder. "Perhaps you would feel better closing your eyes? I'll lead you – and _your_ hand, I will hold any time."

Mutely, she placed her hand in his, and he tugged her forward. She winced and squinted as he was swallowed up by the rough gray rock, and sucked in a lungful of air as their twined grip encouraged her steps to follow – and she met no resistance. They were in another tunnel, a short narrow passage, dim but sufficiently illuminated by daylight. She looked over her shoulder through whatever illusion hid the opening; Kilgarrah's teeth gleamed in an expression of amusement.

Then Arthur said, in a tone between amused annoyance and real anger, "Dammit, Merlin."

She turned as he released her hand and found herself in a small chamber, about twice the size of her balcony, not dissimilar to the cave of the kings' crypts where they had passed the night, but for its size.

And for atmosphere.

It was quiet here, no echo. Peaceful, she would have said. She felt a presence – or a host – but not of the dragons. Not wary and selfish, but compassionate and generous… though to her knowledge no one was buried here, as they were in the other cavern's chambers.

She shook the feeling off, and began to examine the physical surroundings for whatever irritated Arthur. Chests and boxes, dusty and unassuming, securing without flaunting their contents. On a chest to her right, a dusty pillow with a tarnished gold circlet askew on it, the gold and diamonds looking more like brass and glass; to her left atop another chest was a cloth covering a curiously lumpy ornament. She moved toward it, as Arthur circled the opposite direction, and stopped with her hand on the cloth as the sword came into her view.

"In," Arthur said aloud, sarcastically, "a _rock_?"

She didn't know much about swords. There were the ordinary, battered training weapons, each barely different from the others. She'd seen some of the older knights selecting from the array, preferring one over another for various reasons – grip and balance and length and thickness of blade and so on. Many had hereditary weapons they owned but didn't use, and she knew that certain few warriors or lords or kings had a single unique sword – even a few stories where such a weapon was named.

This sword seemed one of those. It was simple, yet elegant, and very nearly glowed in the soft dim light. Perhaps because the blade was sheathed in a boulder very nearly to the hilt, or because it was obviously the central piece in an old and tragic collection, or perhaps because she was aware that it had been imbued with magic and represented Arthur's hope of regaining his kingdom and his family, but she felt something very near awareness from the sword. Acceptance of her. But not invitation.

"What is that?" she asked, stepping over to the stone but not touching it nor the weapon encased in it. There was a definite handprint there, almost black on the rough mottled gray of the stone, the blade inserted right through the palm. Darker lines that she'd initially taken for cracks or moss curved and swirled – and created a pattern around the hand. A pattern that looked very similar to the tattoos decorating Merlin's forearms.

"Blood magic," Arthur answered, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like he wanted to scowl but didn't fully feel it. "_Old and young beyond the wall, unlock the future with one call. _When Merlin – and Kilgarrah, I suppose – blasted the cave out of the side of the mountain to free the dragons woken from their four-decade sleep after the wars."

"And he was _thirteen_?" she said faintly, impressed.

He nodded. "Not a quarter of an hour later he was down, wounded by a pair of Vortigern's men. I grabbed the sword –" he mimed the action, turning toward a covered weapons-rack in the back corner that she hadn't noticed, "and ran out to fight…"

"Dinas Emrys was your first battle, wasn't it," she said. He nodded again, staring at the sword. And here they were, facing another battle.

"My father was only a warlord, then," he said pensively. "My first memories of him were – between battles. Proudly celebrating victory, or grimly planning another campaign, strategizing defenses or attacks, with Tristan de Bois, or Lord Godwyn, or..." His eyes still on the sword, he added in a very low voice, "I do not want to live like that, Guinevere. I want peace. For all the land." She waited, not speaking, and he concluded, "But Morgause will not bring that. She will not leave Morgana alone to rule."

Gwen bit her lip. There was an aspect of the situation that bothered her. Perhaps because she also had a brother that would administrate a province, one day. She had known for years that if something were to happen to Elyan, her father's male heir, that the responsibility would fall to her, like it or not, but if she had only been _told_ something had happened to Elyan, what would she do?

"You will fight Morgause," she said softly, and he met her gaze, the blue of his eyes holding a hint of iron gray. "You and Merlin. Arthur, I believe in you. In you both. But – will you fight Morgana?" His darkly-golden brows drew down, and she hastened to explain. "Her coronation is official and arguably legal, now. What if she fights to keep the throne, even after you have overcome the high priestess?"

"Once she knows I am still alive…" His protest faded, and he sighed deeply. "Morgause is a snake. My uncle is a traitor. It is hard to understand how my sister could be innocent in all this, but… I have to give her a chance, Gwen."

"How?" she asked.

"I'll think of a way." He sounded determined. "But now – my sword is stuck in solid rock."

She dared to reach out to touch the hilt. Not to grasp it, but with her fingertips, enough to tell that there was no give, it wasn't the slightest bit loose in its granite sheath.

"Merlin put it here for safekeeping," she said, "but it was meant for you, right?"

"He told me, you know where this'll be if you ever need it," Arthur said.

"Maybe you should just – pull it out," she suggested.

He stretched his hand out, then gave her an uncertain look. "You try," he said.

It was an odd request, but she obeyed, tugging futilely on the hilt. "Fine, now you," she said shortly, a bit embarrassed. He gave her a _look_ that questioned the intelligence of the proposal, in light of her failure. "It's your sword," she said. "It's your kingdom. Take it, Arthur."

He reached again, and this time touched it, slid his fingers familiarly around the hilt without applying any force to draw it, for a moment. The glow seemed to Gwen to intensify, the prince conversely to calm. Then his muscles tightened, and the blade slipped cleanly from the stone. His face lit with a private joy, and as he stepped away from her to reacquaint himself with the weapon's weight and balance, she inspected the handprint on the rock – unbroken by any fissure where the sword had resided. There was no gap to tell where the blade had entered, at all.

Arthur turned back to her with a small crooked smile. "What would I do without you?" he said lightly.

She shrugged, stepping to meet him. "Cry," she guessed, and he tipped his head back in a swift but genuine laugh.

"You could be right," he allowed, and her glance dropped, without conscious intent, to his mouth.

Thinking of their first kiss, of the one light salute she'd given him on the stair, in the cave. Thinking of Isolde saying, _for the first time, both of us realized that he needed me, as well_. Two winters ago, the two smugglers had realized, and begun to enjoy, a mutual romance. Thinking of Freya, receiving flowers from Merlin after such a short time knowing each other.

Gwen turned in a confusion of emotion, and was all the way out into Kilgarrah's cave before she remembered either the dragon's presence, or the illusion she passed through. She stumbled to an abrupt halt, but Kilgarrah's attention was behind her on Arthur, also emerging.

The great dragon lifted his head, rearing upright at the sight of the sword in Arthur's hand. "Guard it carefully, young prince," the ancient creature advised gravely. "The runes inscribed on the blade are a caution and a promise: _Take me up. Cast me away._ The sword is for you and you alone. In your hands, it has the power to save Albion, but the ability to make war is a force to be applied with great wisdom. Trust those who gather around you."

"Like my father did?" Arthur spoke as if without thinking, and with bitterness.

Kilgarrah dropped his head, and the gravelly voice softened with something like compassion. "Every man's bane is himself, young prince. Every man has weaknesses – and to rule alone makes a weakness a vulnerability. Trust those who gather around you now, include them in your rule, and it will be strengthened beyond compare."

Arthur turned from the great dragon to look at her, and she was suddenly conscious of the trousers she was wearing for how many days in a row now, and the windblown tendrils of hair that had escaped her uncombed braid. But the prince smiled at her.

"Thank you, Kilgarrah," he said.

"Keep the hope, await the king. Once and future peace will bring," the great dragon said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin wished, a bit, that he had gone with Aithusa. They hadn't flown together in so long, and this was Arthur's first flight. He was sorry to miss it, the exhilaration and speed, the simultaneous rush of danger and assurance of safety, the feeling of owning the view that spread out below and all around.

The chance to tease the prince endlessly and mercilessly about any hint of nerves or nausea. He was quite sure Gwen wouldn't do that.

But this trip didn't need both of them. With Aithusa's speed and strength and magic, Arthur didn't need Merlin's protection. And perhaps his presence with the scouting party did increase their risk of confrontation if they were discovered by mercenaries or knights, but any contact at all, of course, was contrary to plan. And if they met any of the Knights of Medhir, they would likely need Merlin's magic for any hope of escape.

There were other reasons he'd suggested that Arthur make the aerial journey. It made Merlin nervous to think of how serious Arthur had been about stalking Morgause down to challenge her. He didn't want the prince within stalking distance of Camelot, without him. He doubted that any of the others would disobey the prince's orders the way he had, last night; he doubted that any of the others would be able to force Arthur's retreat for his own good, the way Merlin had.

And Morgana.

Merlin allowed the brown mare he rode to jog along between Leon's and Tristan's mounts without consciously guiding her. He dismounted when the others did, and stood quietly with his eyes on the white towers of the citadel visible in the distance as Leon gave them all instructions, without really paying much attention. Then followed Gwaine and Tristan around to the north, where the grate-guarded tunnel to the lower levels was hidden in a clump of young beech trees.

He had his own mission to complete, this morning.

It hadn't been much of a surprise, to see his third vision from the crystal of Neahtid come to pass. Ever since he'd seen it, he'd assumed that her coronation meant Arthur's death. And for a time he'd been so deathly afraid that Arthur's death would come at his own hand – or claw, as the curse would have it. The realization of the last vision brought an odd sort of relief. As well as more questions.

Morgana. He suspected that Arthur was still resisting the logical if disagreeable conclusion of his uncle's involvement. And might refuse altogether to consider the question of his half-sister. To what extent was she aware of her sister's plots? Was she deceived, enchanted? Or was she complicit also, just as guilty of seeking the throne through violence, her care for her family turned to a selfish greed for power?

"If you boys will excuse me for an hour or two – well, better make it until noon," he said, giving Gwaine and Tristan a grin as he prepared to head off at right angles to their stealthy patrol, forty yards or so from the city walls.

They exchanged a glance, then Gwaine looked over the smuggler's shoulder toward the white towers, before retreating a step toward him. "Are you going back in?" he asked quietly. "Does Arthur know?"

"Yes, and – not yet," Merlin responded. "There's something I have to do – I'll be as quick as I can, but if I don't meet you at the horses by the time Leon wants to ride back to the cave, don't wait for me."

Gwaine studied him with eyes dark with suspicion. "Don't suppose I can persuade you to let me come along?" he said, and Merlin shook his head, grateful anyway for the offer. "Be careful, then, mate." He heard Tristan pose some question, and Gwaine begin to answer, as he moved through the last strip of forest, locating the small grate guarding the tunnel into the dungeons.

Crouching down before it, he _looked_ into the small arms closet – where the guards stored weapons, as it was handier than the larger armory all the knights used – fifteen yards down the tunnel, where the entrance was hidden by the second shield from the left, hung on the back wall. The tunnel was empty, the shield in place, the requisite two guards supplemented by a mercenary, he guessed, and snapped back to the more limited vision unenhanced by his magic, with only the slightest disorientation.

"_Tospringe_," he breathed, reaching to pull the smoking grate open even as his magic forced the lock.

At the door of the arms closet he paused again, inching it open to see the two guards engaged in a desultory game of dice, the mercenary leaning on the wall by the stair cleaning his nails with the point of his knife. Concentrating his attention and the sight of his inner eye once again, he used magic to nudge a painted vase from a shelf in the nearest vault, and heard it smash on the stone floor.

The two guards jumped up alertly to investigate; the mercenary yawned.

Merlin smiled. Perfect.

Moments later, he closed the closet door on the body of the sleeping mercenary and took the stairs two at a time, dressed in the man's dark trousers and thick leather vest armored with iron rings, the hood of the sleeveless tunic beneath drawn up to disguise him further, the bracers on his bare arms adequately hiding his druidic tattoos.

From the dungeon, it was only slightly out of his way to pass Gaius' chambers, and he entered without knocking, feeling great relief as the old physician startled and snapped, "I say, don't they pay you enough for manners, you –"

Merlin leaned back on the inside of the door and flipped the hood of the tunic off. He grinned at the expression on his mentor's face. "Can't stay long. Just checking that you were all right after last night. And if you've made any progress with Uther's condition?"

He watched Gaius decide not to question or scold. "No, I'm afraid I have not," he said. "Use of the mandrake root in this kind of spell is highly risky because of its subjective nature, each victim affected and reacting differently. And because it is largely considered forbidden magic, there is little documentation available to research." The physician sighed. "The absence of the root means no further damage is being done to the king's mind, but does not guarantee a reversal of the effects. There are treatments I can undertake, to promote general healing, to improve brain function, to reduce pain, but they will take time – we can only wait and see."

Merlin nodded. "Arthur's gone to Dinas Emrys for a dragon-breathed sword," he said, and didn't wait for Gaius' response. "I hope that'll be effective against the Medhiri. I think it's safe to say we'll be back to confront Morgause – if possible before she can discover that her enchantment has been removed, and seek you out. In any case, it's safest for you to remain here." He pleaded silently with the old man; he didn't want to have to worry about protecting Gaius as well.

"I suppose I might as well prepared supplies for the infirmary, then," Gaius said.

Merlin winced at the implication of injuries. He couldn't even contemplate _casualties_. At all. He pushed away from the door, snatching two or three items from about the chamber, himself.

"What is that for?" Gaius asked him sternly, perhaps catching a hint of the magic he intended to perform.

He quickened his pace – if the old man guessed, he would receive the lecture of a lifetime – if not a more substantial penalty. "Protection," he answered obliquely, giving Gaius an apologetic grin and shrug. He yanked the hood of his disguise up to shade his face again, and reached to open the door.

"Protection? For whom? And from what? Mer-" Gaius at least had the sense not to bellow the name of a wanted fugitive down the tower stair after him.

Merlin didn't hurry, exactly, not wanting to excite suspicion, but reached the short stair that led to the princess' bedchamber sooner than he was ready for, and found himself loitering. Remembering walking her to the stair after Tristan de Bois' wraith ruined her birthday banquet.

Standing at the doorway, asking after her wellbeing after their return from Aglain's camp in Ascetir, apologizing for his inadequacy as an instructor, giving her his already-memorized book of magic. The handful of times he'd been inside the chamber – his first week, bringing her sleeping draught as she decided upon which gown to wear to the banquet. About two months later, as she lay deathly still and pale, and Edwin Muirden said, _if you could have everyone leave the room_… Standing at her window, the bitter stench of charred curtain in the air, shards of window glass underfoot not as sharp as the gazes of the royal family wanting answers. _It was _not_ an attack_…

_It can be beautiful, used to do good things… _

He ducked back behind the archway as voices sounded. He recognized Agravaine's oily tones, and heard Morgana answer, evenly and dispassionately, "We must send emissaries to Lot's kingdom…" before their footsteps faded.

Merlin entered the room, empty and spare. Cold, and lifeless. And it had nothing to do with the objects that were there, or not there. He shivered, and brought out the handful of broom straw, fashioning it swiftly into a crude doll.

_For our protection, and for yours_, he thought. _A shield between us_.

It troubled him to do this, as it had troubled him to use the transportation spell upon an unwilling Arthur. But Arthur needed to give her the benefit of the doubt, and that meant making sure she would not use magic to attack them, or to flee. He needed her to give him the opportunity to convince her of Arthur's life.

He spoke the spell, "_Ontende eallne thaes drycraeftes hire sawle_," and the head of the doll flamed, suddenly and briefly, before extinguishing with the tiniest wisp of smoke. Kneeling by the bed, he shook his head unhappily at the irony, and reached to hook the poppet in place underneath. Perhaps she wouldn't sleep in the bed before he and Arthur returned more openly, but as long as she set foot inside the door, the effect would be the same – his magic a barrier between her and hers. And this was one place she would be unlikely to notice the little straw figure.

Merlin thought, suddenly, of his frantic search of Arthur's chamber, the day the prince had proclaimed his intent to woo the lady Vivian, finding the tied wisp of her hair as part of the enchantment Trickler had done. He clenched his teeth and told himself, _it's not the same thing._ It's not.

He did hurry then, descending from the floor housing the royal chambers; he had to get back to the dungeon passage before someone saw past the disguise. He turned a corner, heading down the corridor past the guest quarters just below Arthur's chamber. Three steps down the hall, a man dressed in black rounded the far corner, followed by a Knight. He flinched and nearly missed his step, his heart thundering in his ears, his magic screaming within him in protest at the evil distortion of the dark knight.

_Turn and run_! his instincts shrieked. Could the Medhiri sense his magic the same way he could sense them? _Bluff it out_, a cooler reason urged. If he ducked his head, could he pass the pair without alerting them, or would that action be so suspicious as to draw their –

The Knight, half a head taller than Agravaine, caped and masked, drew his blade, an age-darkened hack-edged weapon, and lengthened his stride toward Merlin.

"What on earth are you –" Agravaine grumbled irritably, rhetorically, then stopped, his eyes widening in recognition.

Merlin halted; took one step back and then another as the creature advanced. Ah, hells. He could not be caught, but he never wanted to be seen, either. The risk to Gaius if Agravaine reported seeing Merlin inside the citadel was too great. He raised his palms defensively, retreating from the knight – twice as fearsome in a stone-encased hallway as under the open canopy of trees and forest. The knight raised his sword; Merlin grasped at his rioting magic, bracing himself to unleash it in self-defense.

Agravaine said, "Wait."

The knight froze. Merlin was close enough to realize the thing wasn't breathing; the hair rose on the back of his neck. He wanted again to escape with all possible speed – but he couldn't leave Agravaine to report to Morgause. He also couldn't kill Arthur's uncle. If he could somehow separate the lord from the Knight - if he let the knight take one more step – the position was nearly perfect…

So he waited also, though a warning sprang almost unintentionally to his mouth. "Be careful," he said quietly.

"What are you talking about?" Agravaine drawled with a cruel smile, misunderstanding Merlin's open-handed stance, maybe. Mistaking reluctance to attack for inability, maybe. Then the older man glanced down the corridor behind Merlin and said, "Where's Arthur?"

Merlin sighed to himself and shook his head, feeling an echo of Arthur's pain at the confirmation of the betrayal. There could be no doubt, now. If Agravaine admitted knowing his nephew was alive, then he admitted a deliberate role in the conspiracy and deception.

"Tell me, now," the lord demanded, "or I'll have to kill you." He jerked his head, and the Medhiri's sword raised another two threatening inches, the black knight shifting balance ever-so-slightly to the left.

"I don't think so," Merlin said evenly. "You mean to kill me anyway, don't you?" He gestured swiftly, ducking the ancient weapon as his magic flung the undying monster through the flimsy tapestry on the wall beside him, sending him clattering down the narrow circular servants' stair, out of sight.

Someone shouted faintly, "Wot th'ell?"

Merlin whirled back to Agravaine with another spell, "_Swefe nu_!"

The stocky nobleman dropped like a slumbering stone. Merlin grabbed his boots and tugged him desperately to the door of the guest chamber. He'd have to be quick before the knight could recover enough to launch another attempt to capture or kill him; he'd have to hope the Medhiri were incapable of communication, perhaps akin to a hunting hound – following a quarry relentlessly, instinctively, obedient to a handler's commands but without intelligent reasoning.

He dragged Agravaine inside, and dropped him unceremoniously, using magic to lock the door behind him again. That spell should hold until well after dinner-time, he thought. He'd have to hope that no one worried too much about Agravaine's absence, to send someone to check on him.

And then find some way of breaking the inescapable truth about his uncle's betrayal to Arthur.

**A/N: Some dialogue/spells from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." Spell from ep.1.8 "The Beginning of the End."**


	22. Come and Join Me

**Chapter 22: Come And Join Me**

Freya heard the dragon's return first. "They're back," she said to Isolde.

Isolde turned from the chestnut gelding Arthur had ridden the previous day, a spare grooming brush found in one of the saddlebags in her hand, searching through the foliage for the riders her partner had joined. The female smuggler had been surprisingly good company; she was deep and she was clever, but the silence between them was serene and comfortable, the conversation infrequent and undemanding.

"No, the dragon," Freya explained, bundling the holly and the chamomile she'd gathered, and standing. Isolde raised her eyebrows in invitation, and Freya followed the older woman back to the glen where Aithusa had landed, at just about dawn, nearly six hours earlier.

The great white wings fanned dust and leaves as the dragon flapped for balance and a landing that would be easy on his riders. Freya saw only the prince at first, looking small and insignificant behind the great spiked skull-ridges, then noted the smaller figure of the Lady Guinevere clinging to him behind, as Aithusa settled to the grass. She felt a pang of envy that had nothing to do with the older girl's rare privileged journey, and everything to do with her proximity to the man she had chosen.

Freya and Isolde lingered at the treeline, as Arthur twisted to hand Gwen carefully down to the ground. Isolde seemed to lack any sense of guilt over her illegal activities, but probably felt little in common with any member of nobility. Freya was intimidated by Aithusa.

It felt very odd for her to be in the presence of someone who was more intelligent than most humans, articulate and inhumanly perceptive, and she could not _see_ him, as she saw people. As a dragon, he obviously possessed great strength, speed, agility. Fire and magic. But she could sense nothing of a personality, nothing of joy or fear or weakness or motivation or hope. His connection with Merlin was undeniable – and quite possibly, one that neither of them would change, if they could – but still, she felt, not exactly by _choice_, for either of them.

Not as much as Merlin and Arthur's friendship had been. Their destinies were entwined by prophecy, maybe, but that did not dictate that they were required even to like each other, to listen or cooperate. The loyalty she'd seen that they shared was not a loyalty to destiny, but to each other. There was a difference.

Arthur drew a naked sword from his belt before kicking his leg free of the scaly white neck and sliding down carefully. Aithusa turned his head slightly to mark Freya and Isolde waiting under the trees, and she found herself stepping out.

Moments like these still felt surreal to her, though there had been more and more, since she'd witnessed an attempted assassination of a prince, and embraced a famous and powerful sorcerer in a dark alley in her underclothes. Now she stood in the presence of the prince of Camelot – though dispossessed and fugitive – the lady of Lionys, and a dragon. She still wondered if she was about to awaken from a fantastic dream, sometimes.

Arthur called something up to the dragon; Freya heard _thank you_, and _Emrys_. First she thought he was asking about Merlin, but when the dragon responded, she realized the prince had used the name in reference to the place, and not the man.

"No, I shall remain nearby," Aithusa said. He rose to his full height and stretched his wings deliberately. "Though this is not my battle, I have a mind to claim the skies surrounding your citadel, Prince Arthur. Remind the witches of my lord's allies." Freya wondered if he referred to Merlin when he said _my lord_, or Arthur, or both. Or whether the distinction didn't matter. "Farewell," Aithusa added, preparing to take off again; Isolde who'd ventured to Freya's side half-turned from the anticipated down-draft. "You possess a unique gift - use it wisely."

"Yes, I know," Arthur said, shifting the sword in his grip to better see it himself. The _royal_ that Freya had recognized in him from the moment they'd met stirred into something that closely resembled Merlin's _magic_. Like… _light of fire, and light of sun_.

"I was not speaking of the dragonsword," Aithusa said, and leaped upward, the beat of his wings slamming into the air deafening for a moment until he soared from sight.

Arthur and Guinevere turned to them at the same time, the lady with a smile of greeting, while the prince slid his recovered blade into his belt at his hip.

"Are we back first?" Gwen asked, crossed the grass to them. Freya nodded, but Isolde pointed past the noble pair.

"Not by much," she said in her quietly arch way. "You have good timing, Arthur."

He didn't react to her omission of respectful title, just turned as the sound of jogging hoof-beats preceded the returning knights. Sir Leon was in the lead, and was the first to dismount before Arthur, but more attention was given to Sir Elyan, with blood on his face – and Gwaine behind him, his forehead marked with dirt or bruising behind his long dark hair. Gwen exclaimed in alarm, pouncing on her brother to examine him; Gwaine met Freya's eyes with a tired but cocky grin, and she breathed easy again, knowing he would not appreciate the same attention from her.

Then she realized that Merlin wasn't among them.

"What happened?" Arthur questioned, at Gwen's side with a scrutiny swifter than hers, but no less caring. Freya was aware of Isolde slipping between horses and riders to twine her arms around the tall smuggler and hold him tight, turning her face up for his kiss of reassurance.

"The patrol was mostly uneventful," Leon began.

"Percival and I ran into one of those black knights," Elyan explained. Clearly he'd been shaken by the experience, but just as clearly was determined to maintain composure. "Gwaine and Tristan were nearby and came to our aid, and it was a good thing – our weapons were useless, as you said. They were men, sire, but – not men. Gwaine knocked him down, and Percival managed to roll a very large rock onto him. It did not kill him, but he was pinned, and we… retreated."

"And where was –" Arthur began, lifting his head to scan the half-dozen men. "Where _is_ Merlin?"

Silence. Freya's heart constricted; she looked to Gwaine, and found his eyes on her, before he shifted his gaze to the prince. "He said there was something he had to do," Gwaine said, and Freya watched Arthur's attention sharpen on her brother. "He said not to wait for him." Again, silence. An _intentional_ absence did not, Freya thought, make it any better.

Then Leon and Tristan turned nearly simultaneously in the same direction. "Mercenary!" Tristan hissed, leaping for the crossbow on the nearest saddle and leveling it. The others all had hands on the hilts of their swords.

"We were followed," Lancelot said in a voice of quiet disbelief.

Freya saw him an instant before Tristan fired the crossbow. In a hooded tunic and ring-studded armor, his arms bare but for bracers. "No, don't, it's –" she shouted, but the bolt flew.

And stuck, midair, a foot from the rider's right palm. Freya exhaled in relief, and he threw back the hood to give them a wry familiar grin. He plucked the bolt from the air, swung his leg over his mount's neck and slid down to lope across to them.  
No one said anything. The prince, Freya thought, was furious.

"Sorry, my fault," Merlin said to Tristan, handing him the arrow.

"I told you," Arthur said to him, "not to do anything stupid."

The young sorcerer's eyes went to his prince, and lit up. "You've got it, then."

"Yes, obviously," Arthur said evenly, as Merlin approached to touch the hilt at the prince's hip in a reverently familiar way, and Arthur did nothing to stop him. "And was your morning productive?"

The two stood eye to eye. "I hope so," Merlin answered, with the lilt of a pleading question.

Arthur held his gaze a moment longer before relenting. "Back to the cave," he said. "We'll eat – and talk."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur didn't know why he was surprised at Merlin, anymore.

The young sorcerer was a walking contradiction, he'd recognized that from the very first night they'd met. Ignorant or clever, brave or foolish – powerful or vulnerable. It was often a mixed reaction he provoked in Arthur, also – fury and hope, exasperation and relief, worry and confidence.

Time for dealing with him later, though.

"What about the drawbridge, Leon?" he said, as they made their way back to the cave.

"Well-manned, as are the northern gates," his former scout answered.

"The battlements on the south side?" he continued, seeing the layout of his citadel in his mind, rather than the underbrush and tree-boles around him.

"All guarded, sire," Percival answered.

Lancelot said, "Arthur, even if we can get inside, those knights…"

"I know," Arthur said.

His thoughts had exhausted him, since yesterday. Questions of what to do, how to do it – even whether he should act at all, when victory seemed impossible, or unacceptably costly – three of them against all the knights of Camelot, seven Medhiri and the high priestess, and uncounted mercenaries.

_Trust those who gather around you now… your death will not prevent the fulfillment of prophecy_… Maybe it wasn't hope exactly, yet, but he felt a certain determination. And that was good enough for now.

Entering the main chamber of the ancient crypts, he crossed immediately to the pile of treasured rubble. Yes, he hadn't been wrong. The rounded curve of a heavy table – not large, but ten of them would fit around it comfortably - protruded from the jumbled stack; he began to clear other objects off from it. For a moment he worked alone, before the others caught his intention; Lancelot and Percival stepped forward to help pass things back to some of the others.

Then Merlin said, "Here, I've got this."

Arthur stepped back, careful not to trip over the clutter on the cave floor, as the table lifted from the ground and floated forward, nearer the fire and Merlin whose eyes glowed golden until it came to rest. Arthur walked around it; the engraving and inlay was filthy with centuries of dust, but that mattered little, here and now. He stopped when he was opposite Merlin, and most of the others.

"Find a seat," he said only.

There were a few actual chairs in the stack of treasured goods, but a couple of trunks and crates upended, and a barrel that only Merlin could move sufficed. The three women busied themselves near the fire readying their last meal; he made sure of a seat for Guinevere beside him and tried not to wonder what would become of all of them by dinnertime. Or breakfast the next morning.

Finally he was satisfied with the count of chairs; Guinevere straightened from the fire with a nod and a platter of roasted meat, fowl and hare. He took her free hand as he passed her, and spoke loudly enough to gain the attention of everyone there.

"Here. Come and join me."

He handed Gwen to one of the chairs, an ornately grubby thing with arms. The others took their places more slowly, glancing around at each other as if the presence of furniture meant protocols were to be observed – but they weren't sure what. Merlin - even though he delayed to help Freya carry a set of tarnished gold dishes of greens and roasted roots – ended up perched on the barrel at Arthur's right, and began to slide the rough hurried meal around the table for everyone to share. Tristan leaned on the back of a chair to reach the platter nearest him, joining them to eat, but still keeping himself separate.

For a while everyone was occupied with taking a share and making sure their neighbor had what he wanted; Isolde lounged beside Tristan, and Freya flitted back and forth, carrying and fetching – he saw Merlin's eyes on the girl as often as her brother's, but if she did not feel comfortable at the table with them, he would not embarrass her by suggesting it in front of everyone.

Arthur stood, and leaned on his hands over the rim of the table, speaking slowly what he'd been considering since leaving Dinas Emrys. "This table belonged to the ancient kings of Camelot. A round table -" he looked at each of them, so different and yet… _connected_ – "afforded no one man more importance than any other. They believed in equality in all things. I am no better than any man here – without rank, without title, without home. So it seems fitting that we revive this tradition. Without each of you –" he met each gaze again, from the lady beside him, to the smugglers, the swordsman and his sister, the knights, and Merlin – "we would not be here. I would ask you now, to take counsel with me.

"Here's where things stand," he went on, lowering himself to his seat again. "Our enemies – Morgause the high priestess of the isle. Seven Knights of Medhir, raised and sustained by dark magic. The mercenaries hired by traitors to my father's crown. And the loyal knights of Camelot, who mistakenly believe us to be the enemy. These hold the citadel," he finished. "Which I mean to reclaim. Tonight."

Arthur felt Merlin look at him and relax slightly; he knew the younger man had worried for his mentor if Morgause discovered that her curse on the king had been thwarted, even for a time. He straightened and put his hand on the hilt of the dragonsword at his belt.

"The Medhiri are my responsibility," he said. "My sword our only hope of defeating them."

"Morgause is mine," Merlin said without hesitation, speaking softly, but every eye turned to him. And a chill ran down Arthur's back; in that armored vest and bracers his friend looked much more a warrior than he normally did – and sounded it also. "I thought…" he raised his eyes to Arthur's – "If I could draw her someplace where no one else would be in danger…"

"Like…" Leon drew the word out as a request for explanation.

"I can shift into Gaius' chambers without alerting Morgause," Merlin said, leaning his chest against the edge of the table to address the rest, all earnest intensity. "Because of protections I put on that room years ago. But there will be other places in the citadel where they won't want me to arrive without warning – the king's chamber, or the throne room, the vaults, maybe – so if I shift there, they'll know. And she'll come."

"With curses blazing," Gwaine remarked. "You've got a plan for that?" Merlin only shrugged, and Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What had Merlin been doing, this morning? He supposed he should be glad his friend hadn't decided to go after the witch immediately.

"How can you be sure any of those places won't have innocent bystanders, though?" Elyan asked reasonably.

Gwen spoke up, surprising Arthur a little, but he kept that from his expression as she looked to him almost for permission, even as she spoke to Merlin. "What about that sleeping spell," she said, "that Mary Collins did at the feast?"

Merlin shifted uneasily, and hugged his elbows, darting Arthur a glance. "If you want me to, I will," he said. "But it'll take… some strength, away from me. And it's close to…" He hesitated again, and dropped his eyes. "Dark magic."

After an uncomfortable pause, Leon looked across at Arthur and said, "If we go late, servants or other residents won't be about. The knights will be in the barracks but for the watchmen."

"Probably the mercenary troops will not be housed within the citadel?" Lancelot spoke up. "Lord Lionel's policy, when he was forced to employ unsworn men – no offense, Gwaine – ah, Tristan –"

"None taken," Gwaine said easily. The smuggler snorted.

"Was to keep such troops outside the palace walls, and under a nightly curfew," Lancelot finished.

Arthur thought for a moment, watching Leon think the same thing. "I don't see anyone agreeing to allowing them inside the citadel, after hours," his senior knight said.

"If we," Arthur said, "strike quickly, silence the warning bell, and block off the knights' barracks and the mercenaries' camp, we won't be so greatly outnumbered. And our success neutralizes those threats."

"And how do you plan to do all that?" Tristan said, incredulous. Arthur wondered briefly if the smuggler had finally conceded his identity. "How do you expect to get inside in the first place, without getting caught, or feathered with a dozen arrows before you reach the gates?"

He hesitated only a moment; trust those who gather. "There is a tunnel under the northern ramparts that brings us only a few paces from the entrance to the dungeons."

"Is that the way you took to get inside, mate?" Gwaine spoke up, addressing Merlin. The young sorcerer shot Arthur an apologetic grin.

"That means it will be –" Arthur glared at Merlin – "well-guarded."

"Wait a minute," Gwaine added suddenly, "How do you plan to fight the Knights of Medhir, Arthur? There are seven of them, and one of you. If they're all in one place, that's damn poor odds for you – and if they're not, are you going to go chasing all over the citadel to find them? That'll waste time, and increase your risks all around."

"No, I didn't plan to go hunting them," Arthur said. Actually, he planned to stick to Merlin until Morgause was dealt with, handle any Medhiri who might threaten the sorcerer that was their only hope against the witch. "Not unless I have to."

"Arthur," Gwen said, and he looked over. Her brows were drawn down, her jaw set with a sense of troubled responsibility. "Who exactly are you planning on joining you for this attack?"

For a moment he didn't look away from her, as the small gratification that she'd been confident enough to speak up again, was followed by a sensation not unlike guilt or shame. Then he raised his eyes to the men at the table. "I asked for your counsel, nothing more," he said softly.

Leon said, mildly and unemotionally, "I have fought alongside you many times. There is no one that I would rather die for; I would ride into the mouth of hell for you." Arthur had a flash of memory – the heat and crackle of four burning catapults, Leon's voice saying, _if Arthur would be Merlin's protection, then I would be Arthur's_.

"And I," Merlin added.

"Both of you," Arthur struggled to keep his voice steady through the upwelling of feeling in his chest; he did not deserve such men – "have already done so."

"I believe in you," Merlin added simply, "I always have."

After a moment, Lancelot said contemplatively, "I was raised to live by the principles of the knights' code. To fight with honor, for justice, freedom, and all that's good. I believe in the world that you will build – and as for my sworn allegiance, I believe it is only a matter of time until Lionys swears to Camelot and the Pendragon monarch, anyway – I find that fighting for you compromises my oaths to my liegelord not at all, but rather fulfills them."

Arthur gave him a nod of gratitude. The captain's words assumed his survival, anyway, and a victory over the priestess. And then the betrothal…

"I believe as Lancelot does," Elyan said. He looked at his sister, to Arthur's left. "This is the right thing to do," he said simply. "For everyone involved. I would support you, Arthur, for the sake of your people, our people. My family, and yours. No matter what the future holds, this day I would fight." The young nobleman looked a bit self-conscious, but such was the feeling of courage rising in the face of grave circumstances, that none who spoke from the heart would be mocked.

_Kilgarrah was right_, Arthur thought, _include them in your rule, and it will be strengthened._

Percival's smile split his square-jawed face, making him look even younger than Merlin for a moment. "My lord and my captain have spoken," he said, a hint of gladness lightening his deep voice. "So I am free to say, your enemies are my enemies."

"I think we've no chance," Gwaine said breezily, and sent an audacious grin around the table. "But I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll fight for you for free, any day."

Arthur pulled back on an answering grin, but only slightly. "That's good," he said to the common-born swordsman. "Because I haven't two coins to my name to pay you with."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya perched on a back corner of the crate her brother was seated on when the rough meal had been consumed. She leaned against Gwaine's back and observed over his shoulder, paying only minimal attention to the talk of enemies and the question of strategy, watching as the bonds which had begun to form in Lionys, around her own table with Merlin's fate in the balance, strengthened with every word spoken, til open declarations of loyalty were made unself-consciously.

_ Liberty, justice, trust… freedom, peace, honor… goodness, strength, valor…_ Shared by all, in different measures, one complementing another.

She watched Merlin surreptitiously, and thought he could sense it as well, something more than the men and the situation, determination and commitment. She thought he could see that they sat with the men who together would form the foundation of Arthur's kingdom. However long it lasted – one night or half a century. She was so proud Gwaine was part of it.

Freya also suspected that Merlin almost completely overlooked his own participation in it. _You can do it on your own_, he'd said to Arthur, _you have your queen, you have your knights_… Even now, having pledged himself to their endeavor with two words, he greeted each new statement of support from the others with a shining pride and hope – in Arthur.

"I like Merlin's idea," Lancelot said thoughtfully, bringing her attention back to the conversation. "Drawing the enemy to a battleground of our choosing, so to speak. Arthur wields the uniquely effective sword – perhaps he should choose a central location to make a stand, and the rest of us can bring these seven Medhiri to him to deal with."

From Lancelot's other side, Leon added, "Would it be a bad idea to keep you and Merlin together, Arthur? Too distracting? If he's meant to focus on Morgause and we just leave him to it, how will we know if a couple of these Knights reach him as well? Or if she gives him the slip to come and threaten you?"

The prince looked at his sorcerer a moment. Then Merlin suggested in a tone of mild irony, "We can do it together?"

"If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours," Arthur returned, not quite fighting back his smile.

"So instead of Arthur chasing his tail around the citadel, you propose that the rest blunder blindly through several floors and wings of unfamiliar territory?" Tristan spoke up sarcastically, still leaning over the back of his chair.

"I can do magic to take care of that, if no one minds," Merlin offered, glancing at each of the men, then back at Arthur. "Just sort of – share my memories of the layout."

"Like a mental map?" Gwaine asked, but Merlin shook his head.

"Better. Faster. Like you've been the one running errands through all the halls and stairs for two years."

There was a brief pause, and it occurred to Freya how much trust Merlin and Arthur were placing in these men, strangers all only two weeks ago. To give such strategic information… She leaned backward slightly to see Arthur's expression past Merlin – and if he had any reservations, she couldn't see it. He simple gauged the others' reactions, to see if they accepted his sorcerer's suggestion, then nodded.

"So. We go in late, through the tunnel. Merlin will transport the two of us to… the throne room, I think. A larger room, but empty – no tables or chairs to get in the way, no columns to hide behind. You all will go in teams – no one alone – to seek out the Medhiri, and draw them to that chamber. Speed will be essential; you do not want to get caught in a fight that you can't win, that others will join and make it impossible to get clear of." Arthur paused, then said, more slowly, "Defend yourselves at all times, but please remember, the knights of Camelot are to be considered innocent."

"Have at the mercenaries?" Percival said hopefully from Gwaine's other side, and Arthur's fleeting sideways smile showed.

"To your heart's content, Sir Percival. Only keep our objective in mind – victory over Morgause and her black knights."

"And Agravaine?" Merlin said, so softly Freya thought Leon and Lancelot across the round table might not have heard him. His head was down, but he shifted just enough to bring Arthur into range of a swift upward glance.

Arthur slouched a bit, reached up to knead his forehead with one hand. Freya looked past him to meet Gwen's eyes, worried also. "Lord de Bois is not a warrior," he said at last. "Nor does he have magic. I would prefer him arrested and detained for questioning, if he gets in your way, but be on your guard. In the event of a confrontation, I trust you all to do as you see fit."

"Arthur," Leon said, in the same gentle way, "what of Morgana?" Every smile vanished.

"Your sister can do magic as well, can't she?" Lady Guinevere said.

"Will she fight for Morgause, or will she listen to you?" Elyan added, from just beyond his sister.

"I've – taken care of that, I think." Merlin's voice broke the tension and drew everyone's attention. Arthur even lifted his eyebrows at his young sorcerer. "That's – what I was doing in Camelot this morning. I've… arranged it. So Morgana will not be able to use magic. Against us." He glanced around, uncomfortable in the surprise of the others. "Although, she is quite skilled with a sword," he added lightly.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, away from Merlin. _Oh, here it comes_, Freya thought.

"Merlin," the prince said deliberately. "Do you remember what you said to me, the morning you came to tell me that his soul –" the prince pointed; many turned, but Freya knew he indicated the passage, the blocked tomb, the ancient evil locked within – "had possessed a thief and was coming to wreak havoc on Camelot?"

"I remember you were hung-over and disinclined to believe me," Merlin said impertinently.

Arthur's expression didn't change, and he didn't lower the accusatory finger. "You said, the best idea I've got is to catch Cedric and somehow re-capture Sigan and bury him back up again. And now, you thought it was a good idea to walk into a city where you could be killed on sight, alone, to perform magic on the high priestess' sister? What were you going to do if you were _caught_?"

"Well, I wasn't," Merlin protested.

"And if you were?" Arthur straightened, glaring, and Gwen reached to put a hand on his arm.

"I would've thought of something –"

"Hells, Merlin, you don't think!" the prince exploded. "You just charge right into the thick of things without asking –"

"You said I didn't have to!" Merlin snapped back. "And if I did, you'd have said no!"

The prince continued as if the interruption hadn't occurred. "And hope your magic can pull your bacon out of the fire!"

Freya cringed inwardly. She had the feeling they argued but rarely, and this case probably each had a point. "That's why you work so well together."

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until Gwaine twisted around to look at her, and she noticed the silence. And Merlin looking at her – the prince – everyone looking at her, surprise taking the edge off mutual irritation. Feeling herself flush, she thought she could either babble an apology and die of embarrassment, or forge ahead.

"I mean," she said, addressing Arthur, "he's all instinct and reaction, and you're planning and strategy. You balance each other out – that's why you work together so well. Well, part of it, anyway."

The prince and the sorcerer looked at each other for a long moment. Freya couldn't see Merlin's expression as he faced away from her, but he shrugged, and his voice was slyly optimistic. "As much as is necessary, and in whatever way is necessary? Fully and freely and without hindrance?"

Arthur gave a mock-groan and allowed a small lopsided smile. "Ye gods, did I really say that? All right, fine. However you choose. Now and forever. But do us all a favor and change your clothes, so none of us are tempted to shoot you again."

Freya relaxed as Arthur turned from Merlin to glance around the table. Of course they were all on edge, and worried about the upcoming battle – the dangers each other would be in, whether their respective skills and strengths would be enough to see them safely and victoriously through. She recognized the prince's little argument with his sorcerer was a way of relieving some of that tension, but she felt better when Arthur wasn't accusing and Merlin defensive.

"As for the rest of you," the prince added, sobering. "I want to thank you all for staying loyal to me in Camelot's hour of need. We'll ride at sundown."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The others began to move, to rise and turn to their neighbor, to drift away from the table. Arthur had a faint frown on his face, absent-mindedly rubbing his forefinger over some of the table's engraving; Gwen remained sitting quietly beside the prince, her clasped hands between her knees, watching him with an expression that combined sympathy and understanding. Merlin stepped down from the barrel to pass behind them, rounding the table toward Leon and Lancelot, who had something he wanted back.

"Cheer up, Arthur," Gwaine said breezily, rising from the crate he'd used for a seat, leaving it for Freya. He stretched nonchalantly and added, "Tomorrow you'll wake in your own bed, and eat at your own table, and put your own crown on your head, again. That, or you'll be beyond caring."

Arthur tried not to show it, but Merlin knew the prince well enough to recognize that the swordsman's somewhat dark humor actually served to lighten Arthur's feelings, as well as those around who heard him.

"You know, Gwaine," Arthur said, in the same half-mocking way, as he stood and faced the other, "if I had any right to bestow a knighthood, I'd do something my father wouldn't approve of, and make you a knight of Camelot."

"Hells!" Gwaine said cheerfully. "Well, as far as I'm concerned, you still have that right. Sire." He grinned, and dropped to one knee right there in the cave, beside the table.

Arthur cocked his head slightly, his eyes studying the roguish swordsman in a whimsical manner. Then he drew the dragon-breathed blade reclaimed from Dinas Emrys from his belt. Gwen was on her feet, and Merlin noticed that the others were growing silent once again – watching, no doubt. He noticed that Freya, still perched on the crate, had covered her mouth with both hands, her dark eyes shining as if they all stood in a grand throne room. Or knelt, in Gwaine's case.

He understood what she was feeling. His Arthur had never knighted someone before, either. He couldn't have felt prouder, in that moment.

"You do understand what this entails," Arthur said, a hint of a question in his voice.

"Lifelong service, unquestioning loyalty, obeying orders, yeah I get what I'm doing." Gwaine's dark eyes glinted as he shook back his long hair, and one eyebrow raised cockily. "Do you?"

Merlin almost laughed right out loud. Did Arthur know what he was letting himself in for?

"Um. If we're successful tonight, I'm going to have to pay you to be disrespectful and insubordinate," Arthur returned.

"You forgot confrontational," Merlin offered from across the table, not trying to hold back his grin.

"And stubborn," Tristan put in, coming closer with Isolde on his arm.

"Hey!" Gwaine protested to all of them. "I'll promise to behave when I'm on duty. Or in public."

"And in public means…" Arthur pressed, half-amused and half-exasperated.

"Fifty people or more." More than one knight smothered a snort or chuckle or outright laugh. Freya looked like she didn't know whether to be proud or embarrassed.

Arthur shrugged. "I suppose that's the best I'm going to get from you. So." He lifted the flat of the blade to drop lightly to Gwaine's left shoulder, letting the weight of it rest there briefly. Then he shook his head and said in an odd voice, "Arise, Sir Gwaine. Knight of Camelot." As the dark-haired swordsman – no, the newest knight – rose, Arthur added, "Tonight, when you fight, you can stand proud, knowing you're a member of the noblest army the world has ever known."

"Hear, hear," Leon declared.

"Too bad we can't drink to that," Gwaine told Arthur mournfully.

The prince slid his sword back into his belt. "Maybe later," he allowed.

"If any of us are left," the newest knight said flippantly, sauntering away.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was a fine afternoon, if one could manage to forget the campaign planned for the evening. Gwen sat in the half-circle clearing before the cave's mouth, watching the men – knights, prince, sorcerer – ready themselves, tending to details of clothing, armor, weaponry, mounts.

Because it would be only Freya and herself for sure eating the evening meal at the cave, there was nothing really pressing for her to do, this afternoon. She rather expected that they'd want to busy themselves later on, with their own preparations. For now, she preferred simply to watch.

Tristan, after a lengthy and spirited – though largely inaudible to anyone else – conversation with Gwaine, began his own preparations. Without much interaction with the others, but with a good deal of his own scrutiny of the group. He and Isolde had just as long a conversation, though much quieter and calmer – and both looked more often at Arthur than anyone else.

Freya assisted her brother, the newest knight – for so Gwen thought of him, though it had been performed with more hilarity than solemnity. She thought neither Arthur nor Gwaine was one to playact, and suspected that each privately considered the unceremonious knighthood as authentic. Gwaine fairly radiated excited energy; his younger sister, not so much, though Gwen didn't see any evidence of tears or change-your-mind pleas.

Merlin, after changing back to more recognizable garb - faded red shirt beneath old brown jacket – spoke first to Lancelot, then to each of the men who were strangers to Camelot. Gwen watched as he performed whatever magic was necessary to give them his familiarity with the citadel – watched his eyes flash gold fire if he happened to be facing her. Watched Lancelot and Percival's calm acceptance, Gwaine's grin and teasing comment that made the young sorcerer smile in response, Elyan's mostly-concealed uncertainty.

She hadn't spoken to her brother, just the two of them alone. She thought he might have a year or so on Merlin, the youngest of the men, and perhaps arguably the highest official rank at the moment, but the least amount of actual battle experience. He would be sensitive to that, his nerves probably heightened with the desire to conduct himself with honor and ability. He wouldn't want an older sister's advice or concern – what would she say, _be careful_? and _I love you_? – he knew that already. She'd wait until the moment of farewell, unless he came to her.

Lancelot and Leon squatted with Arthur in the dust, drawing with twigs – talking, pointing, rubbing the lies out to redraw them. Though Lancelot would now know the layout of Camelot at least as well as the other two, they were probably strategizing about where each of them would be, and what they hoped to accomplish, step by step, perhaps even estimating the time it would take, or some way of communicating with each other if the need arose.

The sun slanted sideways through the boughs of the trees, casting shadows the length of the clearing. Arthur pushed upright, scanning the area – and his eyes met hers. And held, though she could not tell from his expression what he was thinking.

Then he stepped around Lancelot, and headed for her. She got her feet under her without looking away as he approached, feeling excited and shy and nervous all at once.

Eight paces away, Tristan intercepted him, Isolde behind him leading the horse the two had shared on the ride to the cave.

"This is where we say goodbye?" Arthur guessed, and held out his hand to indicate his wish to part on good terms.

Tristan didn't take it. "Arthur," he said, and there was no hint of mockery or disbelief as he called the prince of Camelot – whom rumor and official proclamation declared dead – by name. "All my life I've shied away from other people's wars. And despised the power and wealth that kings buy with the lives of men. But…"

He paused deliberately, and Gwen found herself remembering something Merlin had told her, the day after the curse had been broken. _This thing we have – destiny and prophecy – I think that others can get drawn in also._ Her gaze shifted past the prince and the smuggler, and fell on the young sorcerer, who paused mid-step and turned his head as if his name had been called. He was too far to have heard Tristan's words, but there was a look of melancholy pride on his face as if he _knew_. And wasn't sure whether to be glad or sorrowful.

"You've shown yourself to be different," Tristan concluded, only a tiny bit grudgingly.

"You've shown us that you fight for what is right and fair," Isolde added, in her soft smooth voice like cool running water. She glanced at Gwen to tacitly include her in the conversation, and Gwen took two steps closer. "And for that reason, we would like to fight at your side."

Tristan grimaced and glanced at the bandage still wound about his lady's upper arm, both expression and look as swift as thought, but Gwen suspected that he was not pleased with the thought of Isolde joining him to fight, barely half-healed. She opened her mouth to make a suggestion, but was surprised by Arthur, saying very nearly her own thought – he'd been very quick to catch Tristan's reaction, also.

"I'd be honored to have you by my side," the prince said to Tristan, then shifted his gaze to Isolde. "And I'd be forever in your debt were you to remain here as our rearguard – over the camp. Over my lady Guinevere, and Freya."

Gwen wanted to kiss him, or kick him. He had assumed she wouldn't be coming, without speaking to her about it; he didn't have to make her out to be some empty-headed defenseless noblewoman – but it worked.

Isolde looked up at Tristan, held a moment of silent communication with him, and acquiesced. "If I may best serve you by this defense, then I will do so willingly."

Arthur said sincerely, "Thank you." They watched the pair move away again. Then the prince turned to Gwen, and her heart stilled at the expression in his eyes, so serious and deep. "Stay here?" he said to her. "Isolde won't be coming, neither will Freya."

Gwen nodded, a bit placated that he'd asked instead of ordering her, but ventured, "Isn't there anything that we can _do_?"

"I want you to gather firewood and make bandages," he said, "if you can. Maybe Freya can do something with preparing healing herbs? Or even finding something more to eat. I would be foolish not to assume… there'll be casualties. We may be forced to retreat back here again…"

"All right," she said. Her heart was pounding, and she thought her fingers were shaking. Arthur and Merlin, neither one of them were men to give up while there was life and breath and strength in them. If worse came to worst –

Her thought was interrupted when the prince stepped very close to her and slid his hands around her waist. Confused, she laid hers flat against his chest and leaned back slightly – aside from carrying her when she couldn't walk, he hadn't actually initiated any contact that could be considered intimate. Even when they'd kissed, he hadn't really touched more than her lips and her hand.

"Guinevere," he murmured, resting his forehead against hers, all kinds of longing in his voice making her insides twist with a pleasant pain.

"They'll see," she protested breathlessly, aware of how many people might be watching – Merlin, Lancelot, _Elyan_ - might guess the depth of her emotion from her reaction. _In love_…

"I don't care," he said, his eyes like blue fire so close to hers. "I want you to know… if I never see you again…"

As much as she wanted to hear what he wanted to tell her, she couldn't listen to it like this. One hand flew up to cover his mouth and prevent him speaking further. "You will," she insisted. "You will see me. Arthur, I've watched you face the impossible and decide to do something about it. I just watched you inspire a table-full of practically-minded fighting men –"

"And one not-so-practically-minded sorcerer," Arthur added around her fingertips.

"And one skeptic," she finished, "to face great odds, in the hopes of righting a series of wrongs. Punishing treachery and rewarding loyalty, no matter who the man is, championing the _truth_. You gave us hope, something to believe in. I saw –" she hesitated, but this was no time to be shy – "the _king_ you will become. I'm _so_ proud of you, Arthur." She moved her hand away from his mouth, over the faint golden stubble on his jaw, to the hair on the back of his neck that just might need to be trimmed soon.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and his grip tightened, pulling her even closer to him. Slowly - that she might resist if she wished - but surely, to demonstrate his own feelings. She lifted her chin to willingly meet his lips, and closed her eyes as the darkness glowed around her and throbbed within her. For a moment, he merely pressed his lips firmly to hers, then he moved slightly to fit their mouths together more intimately.

He kissed her til she was breathless with warring emotions of hope and fear. Of eagerness and reticence. Enjoying the feeling of his hard muscled body held tightly to hers, but instinctively hiding the fullness of that enjoyment from him. Not reveling, not here and now. Just permitting the kiss. And maybe a bit of participation, too.

His kiss wasn't despairing or desperate. It wasn't _goodbye_.

It was, _wait for me_.

And she told him, with her mouth, though not with words, _I will_.

**A/N: Hey, I managed to get another chapter with all four povs!**

**Some dialogue from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." **

**And a quote taken from "Quest for Camelot".**

Guest: I'm glad you liked the Gwen&Arthur and Merlin&Freya moments in the cave, thanks for the compliments – I'd always rather 'show' the way the couples work, than just tell the readers they're good for each other, so I guess my efforts have been successful! There's a bit of comparison between the two romances I intended there – each of the boys has a heavy burden of responsibility that a wise, supportive gal can really help lighten! And establishing that sort of relationship now – encouragement and advice at the same time as respect – goes a long way toward stable and productive relationships in the future (because at least Arthur&Gwen are pretty sure to be married, at this point…) And I think that a Merlin who doesn't have to hide his magic is going to be doing a lot more contemplating the ethical use of it, rather than simply reacting with what's practical in the moment…


	23. Two

**Chapter 23: Two**

And then it was almost sundown.

Merlin had retreated a short distance into the trees, where he could keep an eye on the preparatory activity, but be himself overlooked, after doing the magic necessary to give the fighting men of Lionys – and Tristan - a working knowledge of the interior of the citadel.

He'd been a little surprised, how difficult that had been to do… without imparting any of his feelings, as well. He'd never realized the emotion that accompanied his memories of so much of Camelot. The tower where Gaius' chambers were, the floor of the royal family's chambers, and guest quarters, the throne room, the council room, the vaults, the cells, the kitchen. Memories everywhere, coloring his perception. Good and bad.

It had been hard to keep his love of Camelot from seeping into the consciousness of each man, who'd never seen it, but had pledged to fight for Arthur there. Because that wasn't fair. Perhaps if they felt an echo of his love for the place and the people they might instinctively fight the harder. But if the bonds they were forging with Arthur were to be lifelong, they would make their own memories connecting their hearts to the place, also.

He was a bit tired, he didn't mind admitting. He hadn't slept much, the night before, worrying over the few and bleak options he seemed to have, before Freya's words gave him such hope. He'd have to doze a bit in the saddle on the way, he thought.

"Merlin," someone said, and he turned his head, not surprised to see Lancelot, his arm full of gathered kindling to leave for the three women. "Are you all ready, then?" the knight added, indicating Merlin's attitude of inaction, crouched with his back to the base of a tree, his hands hanging idle over his knees.

"As I'll ever be," he responded with a smile, glad that Arthur didn't have to depend solely on him and Leon, tonight.

"Are you?" Lancelot's glance, as he made his way unhurriedly through the underbrush, was shrewd. "You're to face the high priestess tonight. Have you got a plan for that?"

"Arthur's the man to speak to about a plan," Merlin said lightly, to deny the heavy dread that sought to weigh him down whenever he thought of Morgause. Lancelot gave him a reproachful look, and Merlin sighed. "If I use magic to shift to the throne room, she'll come. She'll have to. Because no one else can –" He stopped, but the knight's smile was gentle and perceptive.

"Because no one else can take you?" he said.

Merlin gave him a sheepish look. "She knows Arthur is alive, she knows he has to show himself to retake Camelot. She can't risk people starting to believe us, you see. She'll come."

"And she'll try to kill you both immediately," Lancelot guessed, reaching down for another fallen branch, placing his boot so he could break it into more manageable halves.

"I'll shield the room as soon as we're both inside," Merlin told him. In spite of what Arthur believed, he did actually think about these things. When there was time. "That will contain both us and our magic…" Whatever destructive forces were unleashed by either of them, at least the rest of the citadel should remain intact. "It'll allow others to enter, but not to leave. If you all get the Medhiri, or Morgana or Agravaine inside, there they'll stay until we deal with them. Other than that, I figure on keeping her from killing anyone. And maybe persuade her to surrender. If we can kill the Knights and prove Arthur's identity, she's got nothing left to fight for."

"Except power and revenge," Lancelot observed.

Merlin winced, having to concede. Having to admit to himself that both the high priestesses he'd been acquainted with were thinkers far more complex than he'd ever be. He was good at defense – instinct and reaction, as Freya had said – and had no desire whatsoever to plot and plan for selfish gain.

"Well, I don't envy you," the knight continued, adjusting his burden and heading back toward the clearing and cave. "You, or Arthur. But we'll do our best to keep the other knights and the mercenaries from interfering with the battles the two of you must fight."

"Thank you," Merlin told him sincerely, and he nodded before turning away again.

Well. A few more minutes, and Arthur would be calling them all to mount up. If he leaned forward slightly, he could see Tristan and Isolde beyond the horse they'd readied, discussing their decision within the comfortable circle of each other's arms. He rather hoped that Arthur would be able to manage a credible farewell to the Lady Guinevere also – she deserved that. He remembered the look on her face as she'd fled from his room in the palace at Lionys, disturbed at the news of the prince's hasty departure. Go after her, he'd practically ordered Arthur. She'd have Elyan to say a goodbye, too – and maybe a word or two for her father's knights – as Freya had Gwaine.

He heard the soft noises of someone else approaching the clearing obliquely, someone light and careful, someone who'd pass by at a distance of a dozen yards if he said nothing. He leaned around the tree and said, "Freya," watching her stop and search for him, watching her eyes and face light with that sweet smile when she saw him. He pushed himself upright and went to her.

"It's sundown soon," she said. She didn't say, _you'll all be leaving and I'll be alone and what if you don't come back what do I do then_? She wasn't that kind of girl.

"You'll be all right here," he said. "Bored, maybe." She glanced up with another smile, recognizing and appreciating his attempt to cheer her. "Here," he added, pulling the stone Lancelot had returned to him out of his pocket. "I want you to have this."

She took it reflexively, but without comprehension. He didn't expect that she or Gwen would have occasion to use it, but if it helped her to feel better, to feel safer…

"If you're worried about Gwaine, if we're late coming back here for you tomorrow morning, you can always…" he shrugged as she looked down at the pebble in her hand, and he couldn't see her face any longer, just the top of her head, her shiny, sweet-smelling hair. "Just… say my name," he finished lamely.

She inspected the stone as if she could see the spell on it, and didn't look up. "Why didn't you give it to the lady Guinevere?" she asked softly.

"I –" _I don't know_, he thought, confused. His intention was to make her feel as protected as possible, since he'd encouraged her to join them; it was his fault she was stuck in a cave while the handful of them attacked a stronghold. "I guess I can, if you don't want it."

She was far more conscious of the difference in status between herself and Gwen than he'd ever been with Arthur; it would take her longer to ease into a comfortable familiarity with the older girl, he thought. But her fingers closed around it, and she lifted her face once again, her eyes as deep as her soul and dark with a solemn sorrow he immediately wanted to soothe.

"Is that all?" she asked softly, and took a step closer to him – no, toward the others in the clearing.

"Um, yes?" he said. "I'm sorry… about all this." He wanted to take her in his arms, as he'd done on her rooftop, and in the dark alleyway, comfort and reassure her. _I'm sorry, I meant to show you Camelot, and all you've seen is this dark cave_… But his arms felt heavy and awkward, suddenly. "I'll do my best to watch out for Gwaine," he promised.

She nodded, drooping slightly. "Arthur meant it, didn't he? About knighting Gwaine."

"Yeah." Merlin couldn't help smiling. "I mean, he might make it official, later on…" _If we succeed_, he didn't want to say, but it seemed to him as if she understood, anyway.

"That means we'll be staying in Camelot," she said, and he heard what she hadn't said, either. _If_.

"You'll love it," he told her. "It isn't always witches threatening and fighting the undead and uncovering treachery, after all."

She smiled, but it was sad, and accompanied by a sigh. "It's worth it, I suppose," she said, stepping around him.

"Most days," he agreed, following her back to the others.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The moon was behind the trees when Leon, riding at the head of their informal column, halted to dismount, but Arthur knew the land about as well as the former scout, and agreed with his choice. They were a stone's throw from a regular patrol route just to the north of the citadel; they could leave the horses here tonight, confident they would be found or sent for in the morning.

From behind sounded the whisper and jingle of the other five dismounting, but Merlin beside him remained still in the saddle. Arthur pressed his heel into the flank of his gelding and edged closer, trying to see the sorcerer's face more clearly – then finally reached out to snap his fingers in front of Merlin's face, startling him inordinately for someone who'd been paying attention, which meant – had he been riding _asleep_?  
"Wakey, wakey," Arthur said in a low, amused voice. "Look like you've been up half the night."

Merlin didn't comment on the expectations for the coming night, or the near-impossibility of Arthur being able to tell what he looked like in the darkness. "I was," he answered, on an obvious yawn. "I couldn't sleep."

Arthur said, "I thought you said you had faith in me," before he remembered waking himself to Merlin's blaze of hopeful inspiration, during the last watch of the night.

"I do," Merlin returned, his tone wry in the darkness. "It's me I'm worried about."

Arthur snorted, and they dismounted to tether the horses to convenient branches, then by sound and touch crept to the rise overlooking the hidden tunnel to the lowest level of the citadel, the vaults and the dungeon. The white stone of Camelot was visible, gleaming with unearthly beauty, close enough to touch or impossibly far away. Now they would wait.

"Morgause raised those knights and brought them here with her because of their relative immunity to Merlin's magic," he said aloud, not trying to see any of his men, but knowing they'd hear him. "They don't need to eat, they don't need to sleep. If I was her, I'd have them stationed at points around the citadel where he might come, where her magic won't give her the alert. She had five with her last night at the… coronation."

He congratulated himself that he gave away none of his emotion on the word, but Merlin shifted in the underbrush beside him.

"But I doubt she keeps them with her all the time," Arthur went on. "My guess would be that one is with her as the bodyguard she claims it to be – she may even arrive in the throne room with it. Morgana may have another assigned to her, Leon."

His senior knight had quietly offered to be the one to go to Morgana, reasoning that she would be more willing to listen to someone she'd known for years than a stranger, and Arthur had accepted with a secret relief. Leon would be least likely to harm his sister, no matter what her reaction.

"I'll go with him," another voice offered; it was only a second before Arthur recognized it to be Lancelot's.

"Agravaine will probably have another," Merlin added. "At least he did this…"

"This morning?" Arthur finished, irritated with his friend all over again. "Anything else you'd like to add about your private excursion this morning?"

"There may be another in the dungeon?" Merlin sounded sheepish. "That's where I went in this morning no one saw me but the mercenary whose clothes I took might have raised some suspicion – ow!"

"I didn't touch you!" Arthur hissed.

"Yeah, but I thought you were going to, so I thought I might as well – ow!" More than one of the knights snickered as the sound of Arthur's palm against the back of the sorcerer's head interrupted him.

"That reminds me," Arthur went on. "There may be one near the physician's chambers as well."

"Dungeon. Guest chambers, royal chambers," Gwaine said. "It's a start. Anywhere else?"

"You could try the knights' barracks, the drawbridge… maybe the council chamber? Or the library… Honestly, I don't expect they'll be _hiding_."

"I want to try something," Merlin said. "If they're meant to be on guard for me or Arthur, you don't want to have to fight them every step of the way to provoke them into the throne room – it'll be noisy and dangerous. I think – well, I can sense them, and I think they might be able to recognize my magic, too."

"Like a trained hound on a scent?" Arthur suggested.

"Yeah, something like. If I put a spell onto something in their possession, it might make it easier to lure them," Merlin concluded.

"How fast can you fellows run?" Gwaine said, and Arthur could hear his devilish smile in his voice. "How about my knife, Merlin? Say, could you do a spell to keep the edge sharp, so I never have to –"

"Hells, Gwaine, you're lazy," Tristan drawled.

"Um. As long as you pass it to me hilt first," Merlin answered, amused. "I don't fancy being stabbed before we even get inside."

"I don't fancy being stabbed _after_ we get inside," Gwaine returned. "Here; here's mine." More shuffling and whispering, until Merlin had evidently touched the item – knives all, maybe – each man had given him.

"Suppose," Merlin said after a moment, "suppose she has a way of calling the Medhiri to her across distances?"  
Arthur huffed – if it was true that the young sorcerer was instinct and reaction, then giving him time to _think_ was definitely a bad idea. "Then the knights won't find them and I'll have some quick work to do. You tell me – how likely is that?"

Silence. Then Merlin said, "Not very? And I can probably – um, affect the spells I've given you all. So you'll know to come straight to the throne room, if something like that happens."

When it was time, they exchanged quick low words of wished luck, and Merlin followed the knights to the overgrown tangle of young beech trees that concealed the grate guarding the tunnel's entrance. Arthur saw the brief flash of light that was Merlin's magic unlocking it, and found himself marveling at the unexpected turn of events. That he would trust foreigners and strangers and commoners and – in Tristan's case – a criminal, with one of the most closely-guarded secrets of his father's stronghold. Trust them to fight for him against the knights and guards of Camelot, if necessary.

Much like trusting the ally of his enemy, a druid boy with the magic his father had taught him to be wary of, to free a creature of magic the stories had claimed one of the foulest threats to the peace and safety of humans.

He reached down to touch the hilt of the sword that was the generous gift of both druid boy and dragon, and it was warm. He knew that he couldn't even begin to guess how lucky he was that Merlin had taught him to look beyond surface perceptions or commonly-assumed beliefs.

Merlin came scrambling back to him, silent until he was nearly on top of Arthur, then with the soft noise of his body sliding in dirt and leaves. "A quarter of an hour?" he said, repeating Arthur's plan.

Arthur made a noise of acknowledgement. They waited, marking the time in heartbeats and near-silent breathing, and the warning bell did not sound.

"Guinevere's going to make a good queen," Merlin said, and even though they couldn't see each other, Arthur rolled his eyes at the younger man. "Do you love her? Because I think you should. She's _so_ much nicer than Vivian, and outclasses Sophia in a –"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur snapped. "How about if we get through tonight first? Then, if you want to discuss my feelings like a pair of girls… We'll do it on the training field."

Merlin snickered. "All I'm saying is, she's a real lady." His tone grew contemplative. "I guess I haven't met many of those."

"_Your_ mother would like her," Arthur said lightly. Because it was true. And because he wasn't at all sure – after tonight, just get through tonight – what his family would think of her, or she of them.

Silence for the space of a breath. "Your mother would like her," Merlin said.

Something warmed and spread at the center of his chest. Something deep and abiding and sure, that comforted and steadied and strengthened him. Something that felt the way he thought _love_ did.

"It's time, Arthur," the sorcerer added, in a completely different tone, laying his hand on Arthur's.

_Descend into the deepest hell_, Arthur thought.

_To the mouth of hell it is, then_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The air swirled darkly around them, the cool fresh openness of the forest mixing with the warmer, waxy-scented space of the throne room. Merlin had a moment to think – _we're holding hands again? I'll lead you…_

He felt her magic there, felt the change as his entered, felt the warning she'd get, wherever she was – and stumbled as a pang shot through him like a knife, icy-sharp.

"Merlin?" Arthur said urgently.

"Damn, that was _mean_," he gasped breathlessly. "_Bael onbryne_." The great hall blazed with light, the gleaming polished wood panels on the floor and inner wall, the row of colored-glass windows reflecting darkly, the polished-metal of the row of shields on display.

Arthur had his hand on his sword, bent in a preparatory crouch, trying to look in every direction at once while still keeping an eye on him. "Are you okay?" he said.

"Do I look okay?" Merlin returned, unsure whether the comment was witty banter or desperate plea for reassurance. He felt as though his _magic_ had been stabbed.

No sign of the witch. Arthur's vigilance didn't relax, though his stance did. "It depends on what you mean by _okay_," he returned. "If you mean skinny and shabby and odd-looking, well then –"

"Prince Arthur." A gust of air extinguished the torches at the head of the room, plunging the dais into shadow, and there she was. Leaning against one back corner of the throne, wearing a flowing robe of periwinkle blue that left her arms bare from the elbow down, her blonde hair waving down her back and over her shoulders. "And Emrys," she added, with a hint of condescension.

Fast as thought, he flung his magic outward, into the stone the wood the glass all around them walls and windows and ceiling, even the floor. An inverted shield, a trap for magic. She could not leave the room unless he allowed it – or she killed him first.

He was too far to see any subtler reactions, but her mocking laugh was clear enough. "What do you hope to gain by that?" she said. "You should not have come here."

"You should not have come here," Arthur returned evenly. Merlin didn't look away from the high priestess, but he had the prince in the corner of his eye, standing resolute and stern, hand on his hilt. "We welcomed you as family, Morgause, and you-"

"Uther tolerated my presence because he had no choice!" she hissed back.

"And you had no interest in your sister until you knew of her magic," the briefest of pauses as the prince steadied his voice to speak slowly and deliberately. "You have taken too much advantage of your relationship with the Pendragon princess. Merlin will release you if you swear upon your soul –" Merlin bit his lip on a hysterical urge to wonder aloud if she _had_ one – "to end your spell upon the Knights of Medhir, to return to your isle and never trouble Camelot again."

She smiled widely, her eyes darkly intense. "Oh, Arthur. You should have stayed dead. But I shall offer you as much courtesy as you have shown me. Leave now. You have a chance for a new life and a new name. Far from here. And Emrys –" he shuddered as her eyes blazed at him – "you have one last chance to correct this travesty of false loyalty. If you persist in siding with Uther's son instead of your own kind, you may join him in nameless exile. But if I ever catch a hint of a suspicion that either one of you thinks to rise above the mud where you belong to threaten what I hold, I will take great delight in fashioning a unique and unbreakable curse… _for your mother._"

"I owe you nothing for that, anymore," Merlin warned her, remembering also the _favor_ she'd done, exchanging Nimueh's life for Hunith's at the isle. "And I stand by my king."

"Really?" She leaned forward slightly. "Nimueh underestimated you, and you got lucky, when you killed her. I handed you the chance to confront Uther for the death of your grandfather, and you ran. I wonder how long your stand will last." As she finished, her arms shot out in front of her – he tensed, but her eyes showed no gleam of magic – and instead, the shadows swayed and stalked forward.

Two Knights of Medhir she'd brought with her.

They descended the stairs of the dais in unison, drawing their great broadswords with a dull metallic rasp. Merlin saw a glimmer of light on sharp steel beside him, though Arthur's sword had come silently from his belt. Instinctively he stepped closer to the prince, raising both hands in defensive preparation.

"You're crowding me," Arthur growled, shifting further away.

"There are two of them," he returned. And Morgause seemed content for the moment just to watch; Merlin couldn't do more than exhaust his magic bit by bit keeping the undying warriors at a distance. And these were only the first two.

"Then split them up," Arthur suggested.

Oh, right. Yes, good idea. Merlin grasped a fistful of air as a guide for what he wanted his magic to do, and twisted around to hurl one of the Medhiri the full length of the throne room, the nightmare figure fluttering and clattering along the polished floor. Arthur leaped forward to engage the other, who headed for Merlin, and in that moment Morgause struck.

She gestured, and a column of fire sprang up from the floor, whirling toward Merlin, sparks flying to warm the air all around him. Nimueh had tried fire as well; he didn't think much of such an initial attack against a dragonlord.

He leaned forward, whispering, "_Miere torr sweolothat_!" and the air gathered and rushed out from behind him, blowing the column of flame into a spreading fiery sheet billowing back upon her. As she shrieked to counter and dissipate the element of her original spell, Merlin instinctively used the moment to glance at Arthur. Who drove the black knight backward one step, then another in a flurry of furious blows – completely unaware of the secondary fire-pillar spinning for his back.

Two. She'd made two. Merlin's magic lunged, clutching and squeezing, condensing – then pitching the red-hot energy back at her in a ball of rare fury.

She simply side-stepped, smirking, and he had to snatch wildly to retrieve his attack, to avoid blasting a great hole in the far wall of the throne room.

_Well_. He wiped sweat on the cuff of his jacket. _You didn't think it would be easy_. But she guessed, or had known all along, that he'd have to divide his attention to protect Arthur, and his home, and – her gaze shifted slightly, and he spun.

Blackness loomed, and he had a split second to tip his head slightly, and pain crashed into his cheekbone, only just missing his nose. His feet left the floor and he flailed, his vision obscured and his balance tumbled – no, it couldn't happen, he was Arthur's only defense against the high priestess who wanted him dead and gone as fast as possible. He heard the prince shout something, maybe his name, and he hit the floor hard – allowing his magic to burst out of him indiscriminately, to knock back everyone around.

Though he couldn't see the second knight who'd hit him in the face with his fist – and he couldn't breathe – he'd have a few moments to regain sight and –

He tried to push upright and staggered as the floor rocked under him; there seemed to be two blonde sorceresses descending the stair toward him. He cursed and blinked furiously, and both witches raised a hand toward him.

Scrambling to reorganize his wits and his defense, he slowed time to _see_ her spell approaching him, wisps of visible air solidifying, wafting toward him like a great gray ribbon, like the delicate silver chain of a lady's necklace – longer and thicker and sinuous as a snake – and it would hold him, hold his magic as Alator's cuff had done, choke and burn and enslave him.

He threw himself backward onto the floorboards, calling the wind to gust again, pushing the foul magic away, flipping over his shoulder in a move Arthur would be proud of, if he'd seen it – but he was fighting the other Medhiri.

Merlin rose to his feet, anger and desperation clearing his vision. He pushed both palms out to his sides, shoving one masked knight twenty feet to slam into the paneled wall, and sending Morgause's magically-forged chain winding about the other.

Arthur dodged back at the sudden appearance of the slender silver links wrapping the Knight's arms and chest, but didn't hesitate to take advantage, driving up and through the black-cloaked body – the enchanted blade glinted, and the figure toppled, landing on the polished wooden floor as a puddle of empty fabric, the mask unbelievably flat within the material of the hood. The prince stared at it astonished for a single heartbeat, then squared himself with the rest of the room, determinedly searching for the other threat. His gaze paused on Merlin for a moment, before he turned back to Morgause – evidently shocked speechless at a loss she'd surely assumed impossible.

Her intensity blazed venomous. "What have you done, you bastard!" she spat at Merlin, then focused on the sword upraised in Arthur's grip as he moved forward.

Her eyes widened briefly, then sparked the molten yellow of magic. The nearest window - as wide as a man was tall and half again as high – exploded inward, the nerve-tearing sound of smashing glass amplified into a thousand jagged particles all aimed for Arthur, and maybe Merlin, each sharp-edged piece shrieking for their blood.

In an instant they would be torn to unrecognizable shreds. Arthur, passing just behind Merlin as he sprinted toward the second Medhiri, twisted to take in the startling new threat.

Merlin spread his arms and slid sideways to shield his prince with his body, perfectly calm in the face of impending death. The shards glittered red reflecting torchlight like fire like dragonfire warming the air all around him, stirring the charm hung around his neck. He leaned forward, radiating heat like Kilgarrah's ire, roaring fury at destiny, at evil, at threat to his Arthur – catching snatching whirling pieces like Morgana's shattered vase – it can be beautiful – _fuse_.

He gasped and staggered as the rush of instinctive magic ended. He was cold and numb, a little, but for Arthur's arm about him, his chest against Arthur's back.

"Hells, Merlin," Arthur whispered, and he blinked at a shining column of glass in the middle of the floor, a rosy swirl of all the colors from the original window shimmering delicately gorgeous. A night breeze from the open gap in the wall ruffled his hair, and Arthur released him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Part of a knight's training was conditioning reflexes to recover swiftly from the unexpected, to close the holes in one's defense that shock might open as soon as possible.

Arthur didn't waste time gaping at the column of glass – eight foot high and maybe two-foot diameter, a detached part of his mind guessed – his sorcerer had created from the lethal shards of the shattered window. The younger man felt steady enough; a glance at the sorceress showed her attention – astonishment consternation rage – on the column. He turned to face the second black knight.

And the double doors at the far end of the room slammed open.

He thought, as he turned, trying to keep the remaining Medhiri within sight, _damn, not so soon_! One at a time was bad enough.

Morgana strode into the room.

Dressed entirely in black – nightdress or day-gown, he wouldn't guess – hair disheveled as if she'd woken from a nightmare or had been involved in a brawl, or both, her only ornament the wrist-cuff given her by her sister last year. Pale with fury, but contained.

She didn't look at him. Stalking down the length of the room, and carrying a naked sword as if she had every intention of using it, her focus on her sister and the sorcerer that faced her.

Behind her, Leon stumbled into the hall, bent under Lancelot's arm and the weight of his body, the captain white-faced and not fully conscious, moving with obvious pain, his free hand clasped awkwardly against his lower back or side. And behind them, another masked Knight, a specter guard, carrying but not wielding his blade.

Arthur backed warily, keeping the undead warrior Morgause had brought in his field of vision, recognizing the need for at least a momentary cessation of fighting.

Morgana took in the empty hole in the outer wall and the gleaming glass column with a careless glance, her stride barely slowing. "What is going on here?" she demanded of the room at large. The Medhiri who'd followed them lingered by the doors, while Leon half-carried Lancelot to the outer wall, lowering him to a resting position. Straightening, the former scout met Arthur's glance with a short, sure nod – _don't worry about Lancelot_, and _I'm ready to fight_.

"It is as I have told you, sister," Morgause said smoothly. "He has come to destroy you and take the throne that is rightfully yours."

"Liar," Arthur growled.

Morgana gave little indication that she'd heard either of them, glaring at Merlin, who stood calmly, hands at his sides as she stalked right up to him, the sword in her hand. Alarm rose sharply in Arthur – and his younger sister lifted her free hand to slap Merlin full in the face. As hard as she could, from the look of it. He hadn't moved to defend himself, and his head snapped around with the force of her blow. Arthur winced.

"How dare you," Morgana snapped, her green eyes flashing fire. "How could you? You told me, you _promised_ me, to defend my brother til the day you die."

Relief so intense it was almost painful swept through Arthur. Morgana believed him dead. She'd take the throne – as was her duty, in such an event – honestly.

Merlin looked at her and said with soft intensity, "_He's not dead_."

"I told her that," Leon remarked evenly to the room at large. Lancelot's sword was in his hand – as his was in Morgana's - his stance covering the Medhiri standing motionless at the door.

"Morgana," Arthur said. If he moved closer, he'd lose sight of the Knight nearest him, and he had little doubt Morgause would order the attack the second his back was turned, upholding her lie to the end.

"You don't speak," his sister ordered, lifting her hand to him imperiously, but not her eyes – still on Merlin.

"Didn't I say," Morgause spoke triumphantly, "that he would come here with an imposter?"

"He's not an imposter, Morgana, it really is Arthur," Leon said. "I told you the assassin in Lionys didn't even get close to him – just _look_ at him."

"I have no doubt, Sir Leon," Morgana said, taking one step backward, then two, "that this sorcerer can duplicate my brother's image flawlessly." Her glance flickered over Arthur briefly, and her mouth twisted, just a little, with an expression of suppressed anguish. "But the _voice_ too, Merlin? You bastard. You should have stayed away, you should have gone home – now we're going to have to kill you." She lifted the sword in readiness.

"The imposter is a danger as well," Morgause observed with a cool sort of passion. "Emrys has done something with the sword – it can defeat our knights, now."

"Do you remember," Merlin said, his voice so soft and gentle it arrested them all, "your birthday banquet a year and a half ago? And the window was broken, and a black knight threatened your brother, threatened your father, and none could defeat him?"

"My father –" Morgana snapped, as if she couldn't help the immediate response, before she stopped herself.

"With Arthur's sword," Merlin continued, in the same tone of patient pleading. His back was mostly to Arthur, but he could see that nearly-irresistible expression of transparent sincerity on the younger man's face. "_Arthur's_ sword. I would not allow any other to wield it." He threw out his hand to point to Arthur, and her glance followed the movement instinctively. Briefly. "I have never lied to you, Morgana. _He isn't dead_."

"You'd have me believe, instead, that my sister has lied to me?" Morgana said.

Morgause took a step forward. "Enough! Let us be done with this traitor!" she hissed, and Morgana lifted the blade of Leon's appropriated sword again.

Merlin stood still, and Arthur's feet moved of their own accord to defend him – _hells, Merlin, don't let her kill you just to avoid_ – and his sister rounded on him, pushing against the air with her palm, spouting an intimidating spell. Arthur's step faltered – but nothing happened. Morgana's eyes widened in disbelief; she looked down at her empty hand. Then raised it against him again, attempting to command a magic that Merlin had bound, temporarily.

"What's wrong?" she cried out, backing another step away. "Why won't it work?"

"Magic shouldn't be used for fighting, it should be used for good things," Merlin said, as softly and gently as before, but Arthur noticed he angled his body to ready a defense against the high priestess once again, and Arthur himself glanced at the motionless black-caped monstrosity waiting implacably to try for his life again. "Please, Morgana, don't fight us. Please just listen."

"Ask him questions." It was Lancelot's voice, respectful and moderate and kind, though a bit rough as the knight must have been controlling his pain with an effort, lying prone on the floor next to the outer wall, below the windows. Morgana looked at him over her shoulder, uncertainly. "Things only Arthur would know."

"Things the sorcerer could have transferred from his own memory," Morgause sneered, then glared at Merlin. "What have you done to my sister?" Merlin didn't answer.

Lancelot spoke again, "Isn't it worth a man's life, my lady, to wait, to listen? A ruler shouldn't render judgment without –"

Morgause made a swift gesture, and the captain of Lionys cried out – briefly, as Merlin twitched. Countering the priestess' magic, Arthur hoped. But the blonde witch jerked her head, and Merlin flailed for balance as though he'd suddenly been shoved hard in the chest, catching himself a second before the priestess stumbled a startled step backward. Morgana retreated slowly from a battle her magic could not join –

A black shape moved at the corner of Arthur's vision – Leon turned to face the Knight at the door – Arthur halted his instinctive glance, spinning back to the Medhiri behind him in time to block the first of a flurry of blows.

**A/N: Kind of a lengthy mass-battle scene, so it's split. On the up-side, next chapter in two days…**

**Some dialogue from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." Spell from ep.3.7 "The Castle of Fyrien".**

_**Bael onbryne**_** – used several times in different eps for lighting torches, etc. **


	24. Those Who Gather

**Chapter 24: Those Who Gather**

"Stop!" Morgana commanded, though it wasn't clear whether she was speaking to her sister or to him. As Merlin recovered his balance, he was aware that the two black-cloaked Knights had taken up the attack against Arthur and against Leon once again.

Something twisted inside his chest. _Make haste slowly. Convince her quickly, but don't rush her._ If he _fought_ Morgause, he'd lose Morgana; but if he began to persuade Morgana, her sister would _fight_.

"Have you spoken to Gaius about your father's condition?" he said to Morgana. Morgause flung out her hand; he blocked her magic, but grunted at the force of it.

Morgana said again, "Stop." This time clearly to her sister, but more indecisively.

"We found the mandrake root under his bed that was twisting his mind," Merlin said quickly, his nerves cringing at the sounds of the two duels, the knowledge that Leon could accomplish little except defense. "Gaius destroyed it."

Morgause flashed, "If there was any enchantment on your father, it was of _his_ doing."

"I was in Lionys when your father fell ill," he said softly, shifting to send Arthur a quick glance – the prince's sword ripped through the black cloak, but inflicted no fatal wound on the undead warrior. _Damn_. They were harder to kill than he thought.

Uncertainty flickered in Morgana's eyes as she glanced at her sister. "We received word of Arthur's death and my father's – illness, on the isle," she answered.

"The day after Agravaine told the council Arthur was dead," he said quickly, earnestly, pleading with her to recognize the truth. "The report was never –" Morgause's hand flashed in a more physical attack, and he caught her wrist before her hand connected with his face – "confirmed. No body, Morgana, there never was one – he's right there."

Morgana bit her lip, her eyes focused behind him – on Arthur, he thought, fighting the black Knight. "Could he be right?" she asked Morgause. "Perhaps Agravaine –"

"You'd believe him over your own family?" Morgause said contemptuously, yanking her hand away from him, and Morgana's gaze returned to his face.

_Believe the truth_, he opened his mouth to say, but the boom of the double doors once again flung open interrupted them, and he took several steps back, to keep Morgause in view while he assimilated the new arrivals. Morgana turned almost negligently, sword lax at her side, deep in troubled thought.

Elyan stumbled through first, sword barely hanging from his grip, his left hand clutched over his right forearm near the elbow, the gleam of fresh blood visible on his fingers. He froze for an uncertain moment, seeing the two fighting pairs, the two women and Merlin in conversation.

Tristan shuffled swiftly backward through the door, the lean form and unkempt blonde hair of the smuggler unmistakable. He bumped into Elyan, shouldered him out of the way, dragging another man – also facing away from them – as a hostage, the glint of metal in his hand at the other's throat likely his knife. And a third Medhiri billowed through the doorway, broad sword raised, though the threat was obviously stayed by the presence of the man Tristan held between them.

"Elyan!" Arthur bellowed from behind Merlin. "See to Lancelot!" Elyan glanced at the prince, then hurried to the side of the room, still clasping his hand over his own injury.

Tristan half-turned to judge the room's action for himself, and Merlin recognized Agravaine as his hostage. Morgause reached out, and Tristan's blade went flying. Agravaine, startled but opportunistic, shoved away from Tristan. Merlin reacted, snatching the jagged broadsword away from the Medhiri; he turned just in time to duck another spell from the priestess, and dared to use his own magic to shove her back a few steps.

Morgana turned on him angrily and he blurted, "Your birthday banquet. You told me, every year your uncle asked… Morgana, you know me. You know what I want, and why I've been here for two years. What does a high priestess want with Camelot?"

"My sister –" Morgana began, green eyes snapping.

"What does she want with you?" Merlin said swiftly, intently. "What does _he_ want with you?"

A shout rose behind them, something incredulous and triumphant at once, quintessentially _Arthur_, and he saw Morgana flinch even as he turned to see a second puddle of black cloak, mask lying flat in the center of it, sword gleaming in the prince's hand.

Merlin hoped it was his imagination that Arthur looked tired, his blonde hair already sweat-streaked. Their eyes met for the fraction of an instant, then Arthur turned immediately to dash for Leon, battling some fifty feet away, calling, "Disengage to Tristan – I've got this one!"

Leon whirled away at the very instant Arthur lunged to block another of the Knight's blows, the movements of two men who have fought and trained endless hours together. Leon gave Merlin a swift glance as he sprinted, sword in hand, across the room to the opposite corner – he gave another to Lancelot and Elyan on the floor under the missing window.

Then the sure-footed scout – whom Merlin had seen leap up the side of Dinas Emrys like a deer, and race over rough wilderness and through thick forest terrain with nary a stumble – tripped and flew forward. Landing with an audible grunt and thud, he slid full-length on the gleaming wood floor five more paces before he stilled. At the same instant, ten yards beyond, the Medhiri slung Tristan headfirst into the wall like a miller slinging a sack of grain onto a cart.

Merlin turned his head to catch the fading gleam of magic from Morgause's eyes; Morgana just looked startled. The high priestess began to pivot toward Arthur, and Merlin once again side-stepped to place his body between the prince, still fighting the other of the remaining masked Knights, and the witch, his arms out to the sides as if that would make him a bigger shield for Arthur, as her right rose, palm out and magic ready.

"The hell you will," he snarled at her. "You've destroyed his father and encouraged his uncle to betrayal and you're trying to steal his sister's soul." Morgana's eyes widened, and he winced internally – so much for the gentle, understanding, _let's not fight let's talk _method. He finished, resolute, "You will not touch him."

Morgause's hard dark gaze flicked briefly to her younger sister. "That's not Arthur, and you know it," she declared scornfully. "Give it up, Emrys – it won't work. You can't win." Over her shoulder he saw two approaching – the hooded Medhiri and Agravaine in the black trousers and shirt he'd been wearing when Merlin had seen him that morning.

He dodged a bit – Leon and Tristan still down; neither Elyan nor Lancelot in a condition to join the fight, though it looked like the young nobleman was trying to fashion a bandage for his arm. At least he could tell himself with some confidence that none had been killed. Yet.

"Can you sense the illusion?" Morgana asked her sister abruptly. "Can you see the magic they're using to make him appear as – as my brother?"

"It could be a crystal –" Morgause began.

"Easy enough to prove," Merlin said immediately. "Stop your knight, and search him – you won't find one."

Morgana called out, "Stop!"

At the same instant Morgause took two steps to grasp her arm. "You can't listen to him, he's lying, he's plotting to overthrow you, Arthur's death has driven him mad."

"Do I look mad?" Merlin risked a glance over his shoulder to see that the Knight had indeed taken a step back, raising the sword in a statuesque salute. Arthur stood a pace and a half away, panting and wary.

Then he _blurred_.

Merlin gestured, cutting across the priestess' magic, restoring Arthur's image to the true.

"He's trying to prevent me from penetrating the illusion," Morgause claimed, her eyes sparking angrily at him.

"You're trying to place one on him," Merlin countered, making a gesture he hoped Arthur would respect – _keep your distance, honor the truce_. His involvement would only antagonize Morgana at this point; they couldn't prove anything if she wouldn't listen.

Agravaine reached Morgana's side, putting one arm around her shoulders in an oily, mock-comforting way. "You must not listen to him, my dear," he crooned, and gave Merlin a heavy glare. "He will spin you lies of deceit, his loyalty always feigned, he would take from you what is rightfully yours and give it to some ruffian with a passing resemblance to your poor brother. And in a day, a week, a year, this Arthur will be dead and a bastard druid will have your throne!"

Morgana looked at him, shrugging off Agravaine's arm, not with antagonistic irritation, but with absent weariness.

He felt weary, himself. And angry. And his head was throbbing from being struck twice, and he was tired of having to divide his attention and prioritize his defense and allow his friends to be hurt and play this game of believe-it-or-not.

"Fine, if you don't believe me," he said to her, without heat and without rancor. "Kill me." He shifted his gaze to the blonde witch, saw eagerness warring with caution. "Kill me," he repeated. "There is no illusion to be broken with my death – and then she will know that you lie."

"Kill him!" Agravaine hissed eagerly, to Morgause.

But she recognized the trap in his offer. Perhaps she would kill him, perhaps then immediately kill Arthur, perhaps try to lie to Morgana about an enchantment that kept potency even after the death of the caster, the absence of any vessel whatsoever. But it was an even bet that she'd lose Morgana. Lose any influence in Camelot – and perhaps make an enemy of her own sister more bitter than Arthur would ever be.

She hesitated. And if she didn't kill him, Morgana would know she'd been lying, anyway.

He felt the slight tremor in the floorboards as Arthur – and probably the other Medhiri – edged closer. The one opposite him was three paces behind Agravaine, implacable and impossibly motionless. And once again armed.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur was panting and trembling and trying not to show it. The Medhiri were strong, completely untiring; he supposed they retained whatever skills they'd had as warriors when they'd submitted to the original sorceress' spells.

Two down. Five to go. Two in the room – but all four of his fighters were down, and Merlin faced Morgause, Morgana, and Agravaine alone. He began to step closer, not understanding the truce that had been called, wary of a trick, but taking advantage of the breather.

Merlin, he knew, wanted a chance to speak to Morgana without the complication of his presence, when she believed him an imposter. But it was a very dangerous and precarious balance, with Merlin and Morgause on each side, and Morgana in the middle. She could not remain undecided, but when she chose which one to believe, the stability of stalemate would be upset and full battle would be joined.

If she chose to side with Morgause, Arthur and his men would do their best to spare her in the fight that would come, but kill the witch – Arthur steeled himself – and his uncle, if he attempted to fight. But if she believed Merlin, it would be up to Morgause to admit defeat and surrender, or fight to the death…

He heard Merlin say two words, and shook his head, increasing his pace. Surely he'd misheard. But Merlin repeated his insane offer a second time.

"Kill me," he said clearly to Morgause, spreading his hands as if the verbal invitation was not enough.

"Idiot!" Arthur growled aloud. "Shut up, Merlin!"  
He saw Morgana's green eyes widen, as if she knew him in spite of her doubt – and he saw that it hurt her, wanting to believe but afraid of what it would mean. Afraid of what it would mean if she was wrong.

"Morgana," he said. "Do you remember what you said to me when Merlin lay dying of the poison on Bayard's gifted chalice?" Morgause glared golden ire at him, but Melin's head jerked a few degrees to the side, and Arthur felt nothing. He hurried on, "I said, if I don't return, you will be the one to rule Camelot. And you said, just make sure you return, do you remember that? I'm home, Morgana."

Morgause's eyes flashed with magic again, but Merlin flinched in some invisible but effective response, sidestepping to face her more directly. Arthur crossed behind him to come closer to his sister and treacherous uncle, though it meant turning his back to the Medhiri.

Morgana looked up at Agravaine. "Perhaps you were wrong?" she suggested.

"Don't listen to _them_, dear, it's all lies to confuse you," Agravaine soothed. "_We_ are your truest allies, my lady, the closest of your trusted friends."

"You liar," Arthur said for the second time that night, coldly furious. "My father trusted you, and you told him his son was dead. You knew about the root and the enchantment – he was your brother, and you didn't hesitate to break him, and now you would have his daughter. Your sister's family, and you thought nothing of plotting to kill her son."

He was aware that he'd lifted his sword; his feet prowled forward of their own accord. Agravaine backed, holding onto a stunned Morgana.

"If I had a glove, I'd throw it in your face, which is better than you deserve," Arthur growled. "Dishonorable and treacherous and murderous – did you allow Odin's soldiers passage onto our lands? Try to kidnap my sister _twice_? Did you allow Nimueh to use your own brother's body to attack us? Morgana, give him your sword to defend himself before I forget the knight's code and run him through where he stands!"

"Morgause!" Agravaine squawked. "Morgause, you promised me protection!"

Arthur wasn't sure Morgana was even aware of the lord's touch, her eyes were wide with shock, the pain of disbelief dissolving into suspicion. Morgause didn't answer him, but spat a fragment of spell. Merlin grunted, and a noise like a thousand sparks preceded a slight cry from the witch.

"Promised you protection if you'd go along with her plot to take the throne of Camelot?" Arthur hissed, still stalking the traitor. "If you'd plant the magic to break my father and coerce the council to send for my sister? To declare a loyal subject outlaw to keep any from learning the truth? To put a price on my head because your assassin in Lionys was not able to collect? What else did she promise you, Agravaine? Did she promise you Morgana's hand? To rule as king in my father's place?"

"Your father never deserved the throne!" Agravaine snapped back. "He was an ass and a bully and knew nothing of politics. He ruled with a sword, and you – you have half his intelligence! Damn luck is all it is..." He seemed suddenly to realize that he was shouting into the silence in the hall. Addressing Arthur as himself, his father's son.

As Morgana elbowed him sharply to break his hold and spin away from him, Arthur risked a glance to see Merlin and Morgause, still crouched like a pair of dueling tigers, but their eyes were clear of magic – for the moment. Agravaine sought Morgause, and saw her contempt, interpreting it as abandonment in his moment of unintended confession.

"You promised me!" he shouted, pointing at her. "This was all your idea!"

Morgause gave a toss of her head, and the black Knight that had entered with Agravaine strode forward, readying his great hack-bladed sword for a killing blow.

"No! You promised! You – backstabbing witch! Uther was right – you can't trust magic –" The Knight reached Agravaine, dispassionately thrust his sword through the lord's gut. Arthur felt nausea rise but watched stoically. The broadsword re-emerged, dark and slick with blood, as Agravaine collapsed to his knees, lifted his face to Arthur, twisted with agony and surprise. "You'll see – he'll betray you, too – he'll leave you to hang…" His words choked on a single panicked gurgle, then he toppled and was still.

A far, dim part of Arthur observed that perhaps his uncle should have disappeared in a drift of empty black clothing like the other soulless puppets in the room.

Morgana looked up from his body, looked at Arthur, and this time there was no hesitation, or doubt.

He heard Merlin say in a low voice, "Give up now, Morgause, I'll let you –" and was interrupted by another opening of the great doors.

It was Gwaine, shoving each open with either hand, his head down as he leaned into the effort. Then he strode forward, devilish grin in place under a smear of blood across his face as he called out over the sound of blades clashing in the corridor behind him. "Sorry we're late! Got one trapped in the dungeon for you, Arthur!" Behind him, a black-cloaked figure backed, giving ground before Percival's onslaught, the big knight grimly stolid. "Pass me one, Merlin, can't let you have all the fun!" Gwaine began to jog forward in a lightly balanced attack. "I'll keep them off your back as long as I can!"

So. Two dead and five to go. Three in the room and one imprisoned and –

Morgana's eyes widened, and Arthur spun, lifting his sword as the masked Knight struck at his back. The shock vibrated down the bones of his arms, and he felt exhaustion begin to pluck at him as he fell into an initial defense. Three here, and one more. Unless Merlin would kill Morgause.

He heard Morgana shrieking at her sister to stop, to command the Medhiri to _stop_-

Arthur stumbled back as an expected thrust was suddenly pulled back, redirected – his cloaked opponent pivoted, preparing to strike at Morgana's back unawares. Wasn't this one her bodyguard? Hadn't she commanded it earlier? Who – ye gods, the witch was willing to watch, allow, command her own sister's –

He lunched clumsily, intent only on knocking that grisly broadsword away from his sister. Fire opened just upward from his left elbow, a numb agony spiked with flutters of cold sick pain as the enemy blade sliced into his arm.

First blood. He'd only weaken, from here. Recklessly he knocked the broadsword away, leaving his entire left side exposed – catching the Knight under his own left arm as the specter instinctively took advantage of the obvious weakness.

He dropped to one knee as the cloak fluttered down over the clattering, spinning mask.

Three… down. Less than half. But one was trapped – didn't that count as four, then? He'd count it as four.

Arthur lifted his head first, and it felt slow and heavy. Morgana's hair billowed as she spun to face him, pale and blank-eyed from too many shocks in too short a time. Beyond, Percival backed steadily to him as the Medhiri pushed mindlessly toward Arthur; he glanced over his shoulder to gauge the distance, Arthur's state of readiness, cool and unafraid. From somewhere beyond him came the sounds of Gwaine fighting the other. As Morgana reached for Arthur, he pushed to his feet, summoning strength to deal with Percival's opponent – and his attention shifted.

As Merlin's body jolted, and he turned to meet Arthur's gaze.

One instant. Half a heartbeat. There was blood by Merlin's mouth, and _fear_ in his eyes. A mature and deadly version of the look on the druid boy's face as he proposed to descend Dinas Emrys and attack Vortigern from the rear. Alone.

_You can do it on your own_, Merlin had told him. Expecting to die from the curse.

Half a heartbeat, to wonder what the sorcerer planned. What he feared. How far he'd go to –

The room seemed to explode with fire, incongruously blacking his vision for an instant, heat buffeting his clothes – and a great cloud of smoke boiled ashy gray outward from the source of the fire-spell. Arthur swore he could hear it roaring, like Aithusa's charry cousin, swooping in a slow spiral and obscuring the combatants, one from the other.

He yanked Morgana behind him, then paced forward in the direction he'd seen Percival last. For a moment he glimpsed Morgause in her light blue robe, half-crouched and trying to see in all directions around her at once.

But Merlin was gone.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was very quiet in the crypt-cave, and very dark.

They'd decided not to try to keep a watch, the three of them, and a handful of glowing coals was the only illumination for the large cavern. All beyond arms' reach was shifting shadow, and they lay next to each other by the far wall, trying to sleep.

Freya couldn't.

It was a different sort of tension, this night. Having a plan and a hope worked wonders on the morale of a man, but she worried more, now that the men, her brother – all right, _Merlin_ – were heading into specific and inevitable danger. She believed in him, in his ability, in Arthur and the potential the two of them together represented. But once out of sight, she knew anything at all could be happening.

She lay on her back, fingering the ware-stone Merlin had given her. When for a minute she thought he might kiss her for real, for her, not just to thank her or _Yes_, _I'll write you back…_

Lady Guinevere, on her left, heaved a great audible sigh. Isolde, on Freya's right, snorted.

"We might as well have set a watch," the smuggler said with quiet irony, "if we're all going to lie here awake anyway."

"We should try to sleep," Gwen said, and Freya smiled in the darkness. She'd never met a noblewoman before; Guinevere didn't seem to remember her title, herself, half the time, but still was conscious of duty and responsibility. Or maybe that came from being an elder sister.

"Do you have brothers or sisters, Isolde?" Freya asked.

Isolde shifted on her pallet, not uneasily, but as if she were merely stretching. "Probably somewhere," she said in a tone of private amusement. Then, maybe remembering that the brothers of her companions were facing a fight tonight, she added, "Is Gwaine your only brother?"

"Mm." She hesitated, but somehow in the waiting dark, it felt right to say, "We had a younger brother. But he died four years ago."

Her left hand was given a brief compassionate squeeze. Then Gwen said in a thoughtful way, "Is that why Gwaine took to Merlin so quickly?"

Probably that was part of it. "Gwaine can be – difficult," she said. Isolde snorted again, and Gwen chuckled, and Freya couldn't help smiling. "Not everyone understands Gwaine," she defended. "And Merlin seems to."

"Merlin seems a little like everyone's younger brother," Gwen said.

"Not yours though, Freya?" Isolde remarked.

A warm shiver passed through her, but she brushed it off with, "My younger brother was never taller than me."

"I do love a tall man," Isolde said contemplatively. "Gwen?"

"Gwen, what?" the lady said, a little too quickly.

"Prince Arthur. Is he your type, then?" Freya bit her lip on a bubble of amusement at Isolde's teasing drawl. "Blonde-haired, and blue-eyed?"

And she could just see the look on the older girl's face, hesitant but having to be strictly truthful. "Not always."

"And now?" Freya asked. She'd seen the prince kiss his lady goodbye. She didn't think that anyone had missed that, actually. She didn't think it was the kiss of a woman agreeing to an arranged marriage from a sense of duty.

Guinevere was silent a long time. Then she said, in a suspiciously even tone, "I… admire him greatly."

Isolde inquired, "Is that the way a lady says, he makes my insides flutter when he smiles?"

Gwen gasped as if she'd like them to believe she was startled and maybe offended, but Freya couldn't quite stifle her giggles, and she sensed the older girl relent. Somewhat. "What about you, then?" Gwen said deliberately. "And Merlin?"

Freya squirmed a little on her rug. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I guess I –" she hesitated a moment over the impudence, then finished, laughing, "admire him greatly." Gwen huffed, but the sound was far more accepting than angry.

"He's very strange, isn't he?" Isolde observed.

Freya said immediately, defensively, "He's not." Then, reconsidering a little, "What do you mean?"

"Everyone knows Uther hates magic," the smuggler said in her smooth, throaty voice. "But Merlin lives in the palace. He's Arthur's second shadow, and they get on like mates. If you pay attention to the stories, you get a pretty good guess that his magic is – different? Considerable. But he's just an apprentice, and to a physician, rather than another powerful sorcerer."

"He's special," Freya said softly, calling up the image of his face in the coal-glowing darkness.

Isolde repeated, "He's strange."

"He's lonely," Gwen said. For a moment they all considered the statement.

"Not for long," Isolde stated in a knowing singsong.

"What do you mean?" Freya asked again, this time directing her question to the darkness on her left.

Gwen began to explain, "Arthur told me, he doesn't really notice girls…"

"Well, he sure as hell notices her," Isolde murmured, and something about the added profanity fired Freya's blood.

"I've seen the way he is with you," Gwen told her.

"I think he only wants to be friends," Freya demurred.

Gwen's hand found hers in the darkness. "You're pretty, and sweet. You care about him, you understand him, and you're attracted to him. It won't be long."

"Make him marry you first," Isolde advised, with a laugh in her voice, and Freya blushed furiously, glad they could not see.

"Don't worry," Gwen told her kindly, "I'm sure he'll realize that he's noticed you, specially. Sooner or later."

Isolde asked, "Before or after she smacks him upside his foolish head?"

_I would_, Freya thought, _never dare_. _Probably only Arthur can get away with that_. "Have you ever done that to Tristan?" she asked curiously.

"Yes." Again, that private amusement.

"What happened?" Gwen asked.

"He was angry." The amusement grew. "Afterwards, I had to make it up to him."

"How?" Freya said without thinking.

She could hear the grin in the blonde woman's voice. "Well, first I took off his –"

"Stop it!" Gwen said immediately, though her stern tone was ruined somewhat by helpless giggling. Freya's hands covered her mouth in gleeful shock and embarrassment. "Go to sleep," Gwen added again.

Somehow, the darkness did not seem so intimidating anymore. Freya closed her eyes, not expecting to sleep, rubbing her thumb against the smooth side of the ware-stone. They would be all right. They would all be all right. When the morning came, so would the men, victorious. And they would ride back to Camelot as they'd expected, unhurried and relaxed.

And Gwaine would, perhaps, remain a knight of Camelot. And they would, perhaps, find a little home for her to keep. With room for a garden. And perhaps she'd have the freedom to enter the citadel, sometimes, to meet Gaius, to see Merlin and ask him where to find heartsease and purple lilac. Or maybe he would show her…

Daydreams mixed and fluttered beyond her conscious control, bright scraps of a white dragon in flight and blue eyes alight with lively humor… then darker tatters. Blood dripping from a cruelly bright blade, and creatures watching from the shadows, whispering and stirring and waiting for the right moment to –

Freya's eyes wrenched open on a gasp, and without quite knowing why, she flung out her right hand – to touch Isolde's empty pallet. The fire, ten feet beyond them toward the center of the crypt-cave flared suddenly on a tumble of firewood.

Before she had a chance to relax again, the solid shadow drifting toward her lifted a notched blade in both hands, grip reversed to stab downwards.

Black gloves, black metal death-mask. Empty eyeholes.

For one heartbeat she was frozen, so terrified she couldn't move, just waiting to be killed.

Then she twisted sideways, pushing into Guinevere and shrieking, "Get up, one of them's here!" Gwen grunted and gasped, and both of them struggled and scrambled to get out of each other's way, to get to their feet.

A foot of steel shot from the folds of the Knight's black garment. The mask tilted down, and it turned – affording Gwen and Freya precious moments of escape – to backhand Isolde and send her flying. Away from the fire, thankfully, but she landed hard and moved dazedly.

Freya pushed Gwen behind her in a panic, thinking at first only to run and run away, get away from the nightmare. But it turned to stalk after them, in an arc around the fire – and Isolde probably would need several minutes before she was capable of running.

She squeezed the ware-stone so hard it dented her fingertips. Surely this qualified? But what if she called Merlin from his own battle at a critical moment?

The Medhiri lifted his heavy sword and swung. Freya ducked – and the blade was impeded by a bright metal rasp. Gwen cried out and dropped the sword she'd used to block the blow.

"Merlin!" Freya shrieked at the pebble, then grabbed Gwen's hand and sprinted, away from the ghastly attacker.

Nothing happened. Then she remembered.

"_Emrys_!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The whispers, a trio now of evil shudders, bodies without blood, without breath, without souls, pressed in upon Merlin's mind. He hadn't realized, hadn't expected this effect of being so close to so many. Two dead – he needed all of them dead to think clearly, and thanked Gwaine mentally for whatever trick he'd pulled to trap one several levels below them, and underground.

Two dead and five to go. Three in the room, and one imprisoned. Gwaine and Percival each holding a black Knight off for Arthur to deal with in turn.

If Merlin could turn his attention away from Morgause, he could _help_. But he dared not take his eyes off the blonde witch to check the others, sick with helplessness to know that because Arthur came first, always, concern for their wounded must wait.

"Morgause!" Morgana shouted, close behind and to his right. "Morgause, stop this! Command your knights to stop!"

The high priestess was furious, he knew. He recognized the look in her eyes – he'd seen it briefly in Nimueh's face. When the realization of defeat meant an immediate choice to surrender or retreat – or unleash frustrated fury indiscriminately.

"Surrender," he said swiftly, quietly. "End this, Morgause, you cannot still –"

She glared briefly over his shoulder, gold flashing – and so immediately flung out both hands in a burst of powerful and complex magic, that he forgot the one instant entirely.

Every tiny pane of glass rattled, every shield on the wall shook – his magic slammed them all back in place, holding back the inanimate objects her rage would toss carelessly through the hall. None would strike _her_, and none could hurt her Medhiri. He leaned into his hold, preparing an instinctive addition to the spell of containment already in place –

_Merlin_, he heard. A whisper in his head, the voice recognizable as belonging to – her voice shrieked, "_Emrys_!"

The word was like a cold shard of glass plunged in his heart, sending icy spikes of fear along his nerves. Something was very wrong.

Two, and three, and one –

Damn it to hell. He _knew_. And he had a single heartbeat of time to choose.

He felt the third Medhiri cut from the witch's magic, felt the relief of his mind clearing slightly, and looked at Arthur, grim and resolute. Blood on his arm, his sister reaching to help him.

_Five seconds, sire_, he promised, as their gazes connected.

Victory here would be bitterly empty if they lost the future queen. And Fr- He refused the thought.

Fury and flame. Like the blaze of four catapults, and Arthur wounded mortally in his side. Kilgarrah breathing fire and Merlin molding glass and Aithusa rounding on Morgause as Merlin faced Nimueh on the isle.

The inferno erupted between them; he sensed the high priestess stumble back and called up the smoke, to fill the hall. To confuse and misdirect.

_Five seconds, sire_.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, and had half an instant to settle and center, to perform the incantation, before every sense told immediately of the change in location. He arrived in a partial crouch, at arms'-length from Freya to one side, and Gwen before him – and beyond her, beyond the crackling fire, Isolde scrambled slowly and clumsily from the stalking ghoul, turning once to block a descending blow, and cry out in pain at the shock of it through her arm.

He reached out, snatching Freya to his right side, stuffing a more startled Gwen against her. Freya snaked one arm snugly around his ribs and the other around Gwen, as he reached out again.

"Isolde!" he bellowed.

She looked – stunned and scared – then stumbled for him, the menacing shadow of the Medhiri billowing behind her.

Merlin braced himself, readied the spell – no time to fight it, no time to run, _Arthur_ – and as she clasped his hand, he gasped out, "_Bedyrene us, astyre us thanonweard_!" Her eyes widened and her body jerked –

And the drag was terrible, on his senses and on his body. And the drain on his magic was alarming – it felt almost as it had under the curse, polluted and unfamiliar - or the day he'd allowed Morgana to access it, use it to lift the curse on the whole citadel at once, pouring out of him like lifeblood from a mortal wound... It took too long to reach the throne room. He couldn't breathe, and for a moment believed them all lost in the _nowhere_ between places.

The dark chill of the cave gave way to the smoke and heat and brightness of the throne room. Except for the black figure which appeared just behind a stricken Isolde. And the jagged point of metal which protruded from the fitted leather vest she wore, halfway from heart to navel.

_Hells_. He'd brought the thing with them, shifting at the very moment of Isolde's wounding. No wonder he felt so…

With one arm he swept the other two girls behind him, raised the other against the last of the Medhiri, sending it soaring into the shadows behind the throne on the dais with the last of his strength. Dizzy now… and weakened…

The smoke cleared.

And Morgause gestured.

His feet left the ground, and the great stone wall slammed into him hard enough to rattle his bones and the shields. Now he really couldn't breathe.

And then he hit the floor.

**A/N: Sorry for another cliffie! (not really)**

**Some dialogue from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." **

Guest: Glad you liked my first Round Table meeting! If you knew what a mess the rough draft was, you'd know how glad I am if it comes across as coherent and cohesive, without the chills! (This is the only one of my Merlin fics that I've deliberately labeled 'romance' so I have to pay extra attention to that – more lingering kisses that way, right?) And yes, I love to use Freya and Gwen both to explain bits of the Arthur&Merlin relationship to them, especially when they're frustrated with each other. I think, if Arthur gets a perceptive woman to love him, so should Merlin, d*mm*t! And the knighting-Gwaine scene, I so enjoyed writing that! In Kingdom Games I wrote a more serious, private knighting-Gwaine scene, so I thought I'd go the other direction with this one entirely, since Percival and Lancelot and Elyan are already knights in this fic. But about Isolde… don't relax quite yet? (Sorry…)


	25. When the Air Clears

**Chapter 25: When the Air Clears**

A figure loomed from the opaque cloud that filled the throne room as Arthur paced forward, Morgana's hand fisted in the back of his dark leather vest, so as not to lose him in the all-enveloping smoke. Much too big for Merlin – Percival, then, still fighting.

He shouted without thinking, "Eight then a quarter!" as he would to Leon, as an alert and an order.

But Percival heard, understood, and obeyed, shifting to his right as he blocked the Medhiri's massive blade two-handed. Arthur glided forward and up, two inches from Percival's second rib, driving hard into the black Knight's chest. Wordless, breathless, _gone_, the fourth of them wafted back hollow to the floor.

Panting, he ignored Percival's quiet, "Well done, sire."

"The others," he said quickly to the big knight. "Elyan and Lancelot there by the wall. Take Morgana to them. Get Leon there – and Tristan by the far corner if you can. Stay with them, and defend them."

He heard Morgana begin to protest as Percival reached for her, and turned back into the eddying smoke – which somehow felt as easy to breathe as clean air. Gwaine he'd last seen _there_. And Morgause _there_. He had no idea what Merlin was doing with his smoke-screen, but he knew his duty. Medhiri first. Then he might seek to help Merlin with the witch.

The ashy air parted before him on a pained cry and a muffled thump; he didn't have to wonder which of the combatants had gone down. Gwaine was the only one of the two capable of feeling pain, or collapsing. Arthur lifted the sword grimly – dragon-breathed or not, it didn't fly on its own and it was heavy and his arm ached and bled and his reflexes were slowing, gradually and inexorably.

One to go. One to go.

He moved forward in a controlled jog. The end was in sight – even if nothing else was – the dark hooded figure blended with the swirling cloudy air, and the Medhiri was upon him. He ducked the blow of the dangerous broadsword, couldn't check his momentum, so pushed another step beneath the black cloak and swung at his enemy's back with all his strength.

The Medhiri's bulk began to dissipate before his blow was complete, and the sudden lack of resistance unbalanced him – weakness and weariness delayed his attempt to regain – he crashed to the floor before the black cloak settled limply on the golden polished wood.

Looking up into the vaulted ceiling, he noticed absently that the smoke had cleared.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

There was darkness and disorientation in the cave. Panic and sudden danger and fear.

Gwen clung to Merlin with arms that ached from the strength of the single blow of the malevolent broadsword that she'd blocked, not questioning his sudden and miraculous appearance. She felt his body heaving for breath and trembling with exertion, physical or magical or both, and clung to Freya for stability.

And hoped to high heaven that he – or Arthur – knew what the hell was going on.

Why were they standing still when they should be running? She hadn't a moment to prepare herself before her world seemed to flip upside down, and she had to swim through a murky darkness to reach the light – and then the miasma seemed to cling to the very air around them, swirling confusedly.

There was wood under her feet now, polished flooring rather than the rough slanting stone of the cave. Had he brought them –

Merlin moved violently, swinging her and Freya stumbling back before he was _gone_ – the smoke cleared so abruptly her eyes teared at the sudden brightness. She blinked, and without Merlin's body in front of her, her attention centered on Isolde, scared and vulnerable as a little child.

And there was a blade through her body.

Gwen leaped forward to the blonde woman's side, absolutely horror-struck, and Isolde looked at her pleadingly. Looked past her shoulder, as Gwen ducked under her arm, grabbing her tightly around the middle, below the blade, bracing herself to catch as much of Isolde's weight as she could, so she wouldn't simply drop to the floor, whenever her legs gave out.

Someone arrived at her side in a rush – expecting Freya's slight figure and dark braid, Gwen startled a bit at Tristan's lean frame and unkempt blonde hair.

"Ease her down slowly," he said to Gwen in a dreadful voice. "It's all right, we've got you, love."

"Whatever happened to the idea of finding a bit of land and settling down?" Isolde said to him, quite calmly.

Then Gwen was struggling under half the other woman's weight, and trying to help her collapse to the floor gently. Tristan positioned his body mostly behind Isolde's, supporting and comforting her. "We'll still make it happen," he told her, his voice rough with fear. He looked up at Gwen. "Where's Merlin?" She heard what he didn't say – _we need Merlin_.

She rose on her knees to scan the unfamiliar room – enormous, they could have fit the front courtyard of the Lionys palace in here – and saw Freya five or six yards away, on her knees beside Merlin, sprawled motionless on his back at the base of the wall. Her hands fluttered over his chest, his neck, his face; she looked up to meet Gwen's eyes and gave her head a single negative shake.

"I'm sorry," Isolde whispered to Tristan. "Our dreams…"

Tristan told her, "Isolde, don't."

There was blood on Gwen's hands; she could do nothing for either of them. It was a private moment, and… the room was very quiet. She turned – there were bodies all around, but only one person standing. A woman with vivid dark eyes and long wavy blonde hair, wearing a robe-like dress of soft periwinkle, focused on a group of people across the room from Gwen and under the window, kneeling or lying, their movements hurried but distant, somehow. She recognized Percival's broad back.

"You will thank me someday, sister," the blonde woman called.

Gwen saw there was a woman in the huddled group under the window, her hair long and black and disheveled. There was blood on her hands, and she ignored the one who addressed her. Then the blonde spoke the words of a spell that sounded familiar to Gwen, braced herself and tipped her head back – and nothing happened. She turned those vivid eyes – furious eyes – toward them.

"He's not dead yet?" she demanded of no one in particular, and began to stride across the room.

Gwen found herself on her feet, stepping between her new friends and the stranger – the high priestess, her mind remembered, and where was Arthur. She couldn't stop a sorceress long, how much time did Freya need, did Merlin need –

Behind her on the floor, Isolde gasped out, "I wish…"

"I wish, too," Tristan said, his voice an agony that squeezed Gwen's heart also – despair and determination, looking death right in the face.

"Hold me," Isolde suggested. Weakly.  
_At least_, Gwen thought grimly, as the priestess approached in a predator's stalking prowl, intent now on Gwen, who held her ground with fatalistic resolve. _At least Isolde may die in the arms of the man she loves._

"Morgause!"

The cry came from further into the room, near the shadowed dais at the far end, and Arthur stepped into view. Gwen wanted to shout for joy and rush to him, but his expression was grim, his movement and bearing that of an exhausted, wounded, determined warrior. He lifted his sword, the sword from the stone, and her joy was chilled with fear for him, pride tempered by apprehension.

The priestess halted and looked at him, and the shadows congealed behind him, reaching massive arms around his torso and neck in a macabre embrace, sudden and violent. The sword was flung from his hand, and his cry of pain was choked off.

Far better to die than to see the man she loved killed. She steeled herself to run forward and –

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

_Merlin_, someone said. Gentle and sweet as an angel.

There was a searing pain in his lower back, and he couldn't breathe. Couldn't really sense his body, as though he were immersed in a lake of fire – warm and not unpleasant to feel, though his mind screamed in a terrible calm whisper of the danger he was in. That others were in. Arthur.

Kilgarrah breathed fire down on Arthur… no. He held his breath below the lake's surface, searching the cloudy depths for the prince's chainmail-laden body… no. That, too, was memory.

Perhaps a shard of the shattered window glass had stabbed into him?

Arthur was still in danger. He must face his kin, the dragon – he must haul himself up from the forest path and keep sprinting for Avalon – he must.

"Merlin," the angel whispered sadly. "Is she really going to win?"

He opened his eyes. She was not looking at him. He twisted on the hard surface his body lay on, and felt the bones of his spine grinding together. Odd. And he could not feel his legs.

He raised himself up on one elbow, fumbling at his back to gauge the severity of his wound – serket stinger – _Aithusa_, he thought urgently, making the word a call.

Legs weren't important. He focused first on Isolde, limp in Tristan's arms as the smuggler pressed his lips to her face, once, twice.

Beyond them, he recognized Gwen, standing fiercely but helplessly protective.

And beyond, Morgause. Watching with wicked delight as a black Knight – how many left? he could not make the count – crushed Arthur in its grip. The prince kicked and struggled, and it was useless.

Where was the sword? There, glinting on the floor, three useless yards away. Once, when they were boys, his magic had tossed the sword lightly to the hand of the warlord's son… once in his bedchamber, when a troll had tried to take Camelot in the guise of a lady…

Someone was screaming, screaming someone's name.

_I can't do everything_, he thought, in agony. His magic was there, but it felt blunt and clumsy. He might kill Arthur trying to save him.

But his angel. Had magic. She could…

"Freya," he said, knowing she was there, trusting. He pushed his hand along the polished wooden floor to point.

Then he waved his fingertips toward Morgause, funneling what felt like the last of his magic in an outward burst, haphazard and messy and confused.

The witch was blown backward off her feet, and struck the rainbow column of glass. Hard enough to tip it over, and it shattered – he felt the reverberation in the floor beneath him. Morgause didn't move; perhaps he'd killed her, he didn't care.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur struggled up from the floor to see Morgause start across the hall, heading for – he blinked. Maybe he'd hit his head. What was Guinevere doing here, she was supposed to be at the cave.

Even as his heart swelled with pride at his lady, brave in spite of her fear, showing defiance to one she had no hope of besting, he willed his feet forward.

_ Not Guinevere. You face me, witch._

"Morgause!" he roared, lifting his sword.

Something seized him about the chest, from behind, with such brutal abruptness that he lost his grasp on the hilt of the lifesaving sword. He kicked out, and what felt like a band of iron squeezed all his ribs at once. He felt something crack, and he cried out – and then his throat was crushed by a second inexorable grip.

Arthur couldn't breathe, and struggling was agony, but he did it anyway. He would die if he didn't. He might die anyway. _If I'm going to go down, I'll go down fighting!_ he thought.

And felt his swordhilt slide into his hand.

_Dead already,_ he thought, _that was fast_, even as his fingers tightened. Or so close to death that the hallucination felt real. He swung, and it seemed effortless, the weight of the blade accomplishing its arc through the air – and the lethal strictures disappeared.

He stumbled, gasping though pain filled his side at every breath, blinking away black spots from his vision – and one especially stubborn one that resolved as the actual remains of another Medhiri.

_The last one_, he thought dazedly. _Or, well, almost_.

Six he'd killed, and the seventh imprisoned, thanks to Gwaine. To be dealt with at any later convenience, he supposed.

He looked down at the sword in his hand. _Thank you, Merlin_, he thought hazily. _Impeccable timing_.

Arthur looked up, around the room. The glass column lay in shards around a body, glittering in blonde hair and on light blue fabric. And Gwen came to him, at once worried and relieved. He stepped stiffly to meet her, and was glad to feel her arms around him, her body against him, even though it _hurt_.

"You're all right?" he said to her. "The others?" No one else was standing.

She turned in his arms to look for herself. Wind gusted at the black hole of the empty window, suddenly filled by a great white face, glittering scale and gleaming tooth, so fast that Gwen flinched against him and he gasped at the pain that flared through his side.

Aithusa opened his maw in a silent snarl and breathed into the room, sulfury tendrils of air curling about them, not unpleasantly. It felt, Arthur realized, a little like Merlin's magic. It eased his worry in much the same way.

The white dragon's jaws closed and he blinked down on them enigmatically, fixed with palpable hate on the witch's glass-strewn body. He snorted twin columns of smoke, then – slowly and reluctantly, it seemed to Arthur – he withdrew, disappearing once again into the darkness of the courtyard, or the skies, probably.

_ What the hell?_

Arthur moved forward slowly, glad that Gwen did not let him go. Elyan was on his feet, coming to them. He felt Gwen inhale sharply on a twinge of pain of his own, but the young lord's son, though he looked a bit the worse for wear, didn't hesitate to hug his sister, one-armed.

"I'm fine," Elyan murmured to her. "You?" She nodded against him.

Over Elyan's shoulder, Arthur saw Lancelot, stretched out on one side where Leon had laid him, the scout behind him, perhaps occupied with dressing his wound. Morgana was crumpled near them, and it looked to Arthur as if the captain of Lionys might be talking to her.

"Where's Gwaine?" Elyan asked, and Arthur swung to the right. Percival looked up, his fingers at the neck of the dark-haired swordsman Arthur had knighted in a cave, earlier that day. Unless it was already after midnight. "Gwaine, you still alive?"

Gwaine moved, then groaned. "What do you think," he rasped. Then blinked up at the ceiling, at Percival. And a shadowy version of his impish grin showed. "And that's Sir Gwaine to you," he added, looking at them as Percival grasped his arm to lift him up. Elyan went to join the two of them, leaving Gwen to Arthur again.

"And – why are you here? I assume Merlin brought you?" he asked her.

"One of the Knights of Medhir found the cave," Gwen answered. "I think Isolde tried to fight him, but…" She began to draw Arthur forward, and he saw that Tristan had recovered enough to take his lady in his arms, kneeling over her and kissing and caressing.

"Oh, _Aithusa_," Gwen said, in a tone of happy discovery, his sense of her worry waning. As if the appearance of the white dragon somehow explained the smugglers' behavior.

Arthur almost sighed in relief. But – "Where is Merlin?" he asked.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The dragon-wrought blade flashed, silver against black, and Merlin's prince staggered free of the darkness.

Arthur would live. Merlin let himself drift away again.

_Merlin_. Another voice spoke, deep and gravelly and not-so-angelic. Though it did make him think of wings. _Merlin_. More insistently.

Let the druids come, they can help… No, not Morgana. _Isolde's life is in danger_, he thought at the white dragon.

_And you, my friend?_

A warm wash spread over him, through him, and he felt blissfully content for the first time in – he couldn't remember. He breathed and breathed and thought, when the warmth retreated, that perhaps he could soar through the skies on his own, now. He wiggled his toes inside his boots; it might be nice to sleep for a week.

_The witch lives yet, Merlin_. There was a growl to Aithusa's voice in his head, a slow-burning rage held in check to the command of his lord. _Are you aware? What would you have me do? This witch is our enemy…_

_Is she a danger?_

_Not anymore. _Merlin could imagine the draconic expression of satisfaction, implacably unsympathetic.

_Go. But not far…_

He felt rhythmic reverberations through the polished floorboards, and a soft touch on his left shoulder, patient and comforting. He opened his eyes to the faded dark pink of Freya's dress over her knee. Without moving, he shifted his gaze and focused on another kneeling figure.

Two, rather. So closely entwined they were nigh indistinguishable. Isolde tucked nearly inside Tristan's long jacket, her fingers making his hair stand up even more haphazardly, as they kissed, urgently and deeply.

Merlin smiled, and Arthur's boots came into his line of vision, the tip of the sword hanging unneeded. He turned his head far enough to say, "I think I'll take that week off this time, Arthur."

Arthur laughed softly, and Merlin reveled in triumphant contentment at the sound. "And leave me with all the cleaning up to do?"

Merlin put his palms flat on the floor and pushed experimentally. His lower back twinged, so he brought his knees up under him. He felt shaky as a newborn colt, and realized that Freya was supporting him quite heavily on his left; he dropped back to a kneeling position to squint up at the prince.

Blonde hair damp with sweat, blue eyes dark with exhaustion, blood showing smeared on his skin through a rent in his left sleeve just above his elbow. Which was looped over Gwen's shoulder as she clung to him, happy-tired.

"I think _we_ could use a little cleaning up," Merlin observed. "You're hurt?"

"I'm fine. Maybe a broken rib or two," Arthur said. As Merlin reached up, he caught his hand to steady him as he rose, though he winced. "It could have been worse. Merlin – thank you for this." He shifted his grip on the hilt of the sword to demonstrate what he meant, then pushed it back into his belt.

"Not me," Merlin said. "Freya put the sword in your hand."

Arthur looked at her seriously as she stood beside Merlin; she was scarlet with self-consciousness. The corner of the prince's mouth lifted in a faintly incredulous smile. "I think we'll keep you around," he remarked.

Gwen left Arthur's side to put her arms unhesitatingly around the younger girl. Merlin heard Freya say to her, "I'm only happy I didn't accidently hurt him; I don't have very good control over that magic."

Merlin wasn't sure his legs were going to hold him. He felt alarmingly weak. Drained. As he had when serving in the hospital tent below Dinas Emrys. As he had when Morgana had used his magic to cleanse her sister's spell from Camelot.

"Aithusa said Morgause isn't dead," he said, moving gingerly toward Arthur, who turned to fall into step with him – slowly, though he didn't comment on the pace.

"That's too bad," Arthur said. Perfectly serious, and without too much rancor.

Merlin was aware that both girls followed them. Isolde and Tristan were getting to their feet; further away Elyan and Percival were holding Gwaine upright between them. And Leon was with Lancelot, whose eyes were open, though he lay on his stomach on the floor.

Arthur paused, and Merlin glanced down past him, at one black-clad body that was more than empty material. And there was blood. He reached out to take Arthur's sleeve in his fingers. "We can deal with your uncle later, all right?" he said softly. Arthur nodded without speaking, and Merlin released him as they both moved on.

Morgana sat on the floor in the midst of the broken glass, her sister's head and shoulders pulled onto her lap for a pillow. Merlin considered trying to use magic to sweep the glass from the floor, and found he had no desire to discover if he had the strength or will even for that much, at the moment. His spell blocking access from the room held – no mistakenly loyal knights or curious mercenaries or even servants could enter – but he'd have to withdraw that soon. They needed Gaius, but first…

"No," Morgana said softly, rocking her sister a very little.

There was blood on Morgause also, he saw, discoloring half the priestess' face, staining her blonde hair and Morgana's hands sticky red. Multiple fractures, he guessed, of the skull and maybe jaw and she might never see from that eye or hear from that ear if she didn't just die of the trauma to her brain –

He put out his hand unsteadily, and found Freya's shoulder. She covered it with her own, almost hugging his hand, and he knew she felt his trembling and weakness but she made it look like he was the one giving her comfort. He looked into her dark eyes and saw sympathy and understanding for the way he felt sick at heart to have to use his magic so. There was never any regret for protecting Arthur, or his other friends, just the wish that other magic-users would not make this use of it necessary.

"No, no, no," Morgana repeated, in a low, dead voice, and Merlin felt a pang of pity for the prince's sister. Perhaps she was naïve where Morgause was concerned, perhaps too trusting of her brother's uncle. Perhaps he felt a bit of betrayal, that she could believe him capable of such deceit and treachery, but her grief he was wholly sympathetic to. She'd been told Arthur was dead. And her father so stricken at the news, he could no longer rule. To think she had lost half her family, and faced the responsibility of shouldering the burden of a kingdom at once must have been terrible.

"Morgana," Arthur said. Gently but firmly.

"Oh, _Arthur_," she said, lifting tear-brilliant green eyes, and all arrogance was gone. Only a very tired, very confused, very hurt and very young girl was left. The prince disentangled himself from Gwen and stepped forward to kneel stiffly beside her, and without releasing her hold on her sister, Morgana reached for Arthur, clinging to the arm he offered. "I'm _so_ sorry. But _please_, she's dying. For weeks I thought my only brother was dead, and now my only sister…"

She looked up suddenly into his face, an alert hopefulness brightening her pale features. Arthur seemed to catch her idea at the same time.

And they both looked at Merlin.

One madly expectant, the other darkly disapproving.

"_Please_, can't you…" Morgana struggled a moment, "help her."

"You don't have to," Arthur told him firmly, and at the little noise of despair his sister made, drooping, he said, "Morgana, she almost _killed_ him!"

"Morgana," Merlin said softly. He thought if he shook his head too emphatically, he might lose his balance and crash backward onto the floorboards. "I can't."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

If he was honest with himself, Arthur would have to admit that he was a little frightened to press Merlin for an explanation of _I can't_. Morally, or actually, or… In any case, if Merlin began to use healing magic, others would come first.

Tears spilled from his sister's eyes, over her pale cheeks. "Could I?" she asked Merlin in a low voice, then looked at Arthur. "May I?"

He looked at his friend, swaying where he stood, and white as a sheet. He looked at Freya, and Gwen, who were supposed to be peacefully fast asleep, far from here. He looked at Tristan and Isolde, standing at a discreet distance with an arm around each other; there was blood on Isolde's vest, also. At Percival and Elyan and Gwaine between them. He felt Leon and Lancelot's eyes on his back, waiting.

And he saw, not fellow fighters that Morgause had threatened, for which he wanted vengeance, the fullest measure of justice that the law allowed. But _family_, any one of whom it would hurt him to lose.

A hurt he would hate his sister to feel; had hated for two days now, to think of her grieving his death.

They were all looking at him for a judgment, even Merlin, and he felt for the first time the weight of kingship. This decision, and someone's life in his hands. A criminal, an enemy, a foreign leader. Subject to Camelot's laws? Had he a legal right to pass judgment? What consequences or reprisals from her people, if he consented to her death as an execution of sorts? But if he allowed her to live?

His eyes returned to Merlin's, and realization nudged him. Merlin would feel the accountability of this death, also. Would take the responsibility of the results of her continued life. But the choice was Arthur's.

He did not have to say anything. Merlin understood.

The young sorcerer spoke, his voice serene and almost melodic on the words of the spell; Morgana's attention sharpened on her unconscious sister, but nothing happened.

"That's the incantation you'll use," Merlin told her.

"But you've taken my magic," she reminded him mournfully.

Merlin gave her a smile that was beautiful in spite of the darkness by his eyes and the blood by his mouth. "Only until dawn," he said. "Or – the focus of the spell is under your bed. Burning it will release the binding on your power."

Arthur smiled to himself, recognizing the trust the younger man so unhesitatingly placed in Morgana once again. Hoping that she recognized it as well, and would value that, as Arthur himself did.

She looked up at him again. "Could we please?" she asked, referring to whatever object Merlin had enchanted to block her magic for this night. "I may not be able to… but I want to try, Arthur."

He nodded, but… first things first. He turned to glance over at Lancelot – still lying flat, but his eyes were open to watch them. Arthur spoke to Leon, "How is he?"

"He'll be fine; I've done what I could for now," Leon answered. The barest of pauses. "If you wish, sire, I can go to Lady Morgana's chamber and dispose of the device?"

"One moment, Leon," Arthur said, and Morgana gave him a questioning look. He reminded her, "Everyone outside that door is under standing orders to kill Merlin, and anyone who looks like me and is near him. You're going to have to rescind that."

"Yes, of course, immediately," she said.

Arthur stood, adding to Leon, "And send someone for Gaius." They'd have to grab a few guards; Lancelot would need to be carried to the infirmary, and quite possibly Merlin, though the stubborn idiot might need to take a tumble or two before he'd consent to that handling. The others needed medical attention, he needed to check on his father, deal with his uncle's remains, dispatch the last Medhiri…

"Sire," Tristan said, and it surprised Arthur into giving his full attention to the smuggler. "I am aware that my past and my profession has been – less than honorable. I treated you disrespectfully, yet you were willing to accept my service anyway. Your sorcerer has restored my Isolde to me not once, but twice, a debt I can never repay. I just want to say, no matter what the future may hold for either of us, I feel as Gwaine. I'll fight for you for free, any day."

Arthur felt a sudden impulse, as he had when Gwaine had spoken, and if he looked at Merlin he thought he could guess what he'd see. "Still not in any position to grant a knighthood," he reminded the smuggler lightly.

Tristan took one long step forward, leaving Isolde and her small secretive smile behind. "If you're of a mind to accept my oath," he said with quiet intensity, "I'm of a mind to give it."

Arthur couldn't help shaking his head incredulously, at the changes only a few short days had brought. In his world, in him. But he concluded with a nod, and the sm– no, _former_ smuggler – knelt. Arthur drew his sword stiffly, and laid the flat of it – bright, still, after all the work it had done this night – on Tristan's shoulder.

"Rise, Sir Tristan," he said aloud, "Knight of Camelot."

"Can we please," Gwaine said, grinning as he leaned heavily against Percival's bulk, "drink to that, now?"

**A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." **

**PS, I'm not crazy about using the dragons as a catch-all safety net. But I think it's okay in this situation, because of Merlin's confusing it with the serket incident, and he's asking Aithusa to heal someone else… **

**And, one more chapter after this…**


	26. Heart and Hand

**Chapter 26: Heart and Hand**

Gwen surveyed the room with a mix of curiosity and disgust. _How can I help_? she'd asked, as soon as she'd washed and eaten breakfast. The senior attendants had hemmed and hawed reluctantly, and finally had sent her here, to clean and rearrange as she so desired.

The prince's bedchamber.

He hadn't slept there, she knew, in a couple of weeks. The remaining hours of the night he'd spent in the infirmary with the others. None except Lancelot seriously injured, she understood; even the wound in his back was never life-threatening, though it would take time to heal. Odd to think that not even a fortnight ago, she'd have fallen over herself volunteering for nurse duty, sitting sighing at his side, daydreaming and wishing.

She shook her head at the thought, and began with the bed Arthur had not slept in, folding the velvet cover away from the sheets before loosening them into a bundle for the laundry. Perhaps the closeness that group of men had shared, through the strident chaos of battle, through the silent hours of rest, would linger. But tonight, she thought, Arthur would want his own bedchamber, reclaimed from the disorder it was in.

Gwen glanced about at the strewn and splintered furniture, the scattered and broken ornaments. Clothing and bedding torn and littering the floor. She wondered who had thrown the tantrum in this room – Morgause? Agravaine? Even Morgana, or Uther? and in what kind of mood?

She turned from the bed to push open the window and inhale the morning sunshine. It was different here, than in Lionys. It would take some getting used to.

"You don't have to do this, you know," a female voice spoke from the doorway, and she turned to see Morgana, Arthur's sister.

She still looked pale, and tired, but her hair fell in sleekly dressed waves down her back in a manner Gwen envied. She was dressed in a shimmery white gown, simple yet elegant, and so opposite from the black she'd worn the previous night – in mourning for her loss? – Gwen guessed the wardrobe choice was deliberate. In any case, it made her feel self-conscious in her trousers and blouse, though her garb was more practical for cleaning and tidying.

"You're a guest here," Morgana continued, coming into the room. And maybe there was curiosity in her green eyes. "You should let Camelot serve you."

"Oh, no," Gwen said quickly. "Everyone is so busy already, it would be selfish of me to ask them… and anyway, I'm perfectly capable of helping with whatever needs doing."

"Lady Guinevere de Gransse," Morgana mused. "I must say, you're not exactly who I would have expected my brother to choose."

Gwen's backbone stiffened – but then again, this woman might someday be a sister-in-law to her. So she only smiled ruefully and confessed, "He was not exactly what I had in mind, either."

"Love is funny like that," Morgana observed. "Are you going to marry my brother, then?"

Gwen shrugged, clasping her hands behind her back. "Unless he changes his mind."

"He won't." Morgana seemed more confident of the fact than Gwen herself, but she didn't elaborate on the reasons. "Then someday, you will be queen." Gwen tried to smooth the look of surprise quickly from her face, but wasn't entirely successful. Morgana gave her a mockingly self-deprecating smile. "Yes, I've officially abdicated the throne. My father is king –" the expression slipped a bit, heavy sorrow darkening the princess' eyes – "but it's likely that Arthur will be named Regent." Her lips quirked again. "As soon as he can be persuaded to accept the title."

"I'm sorry," Gwen said; at the other's surprised look, she amended, "For your father. I know it can't be easy. If there's anything I can do…"

Morgana arched one eyebrow at her slightly. "I rather think you'll have your hands full dealing with Arthur," she said, "if he keeps his kingdom in the same way as he keeps his bedchamber."

"Oh, no, this isn't –" Gwen stopped the protest, feeling a sudden recognition of a sisterly jibe covering real fondness and concern, and instead gave the other girl a genuine grin. Before she added, "What will you do?"

Morgana's gaze left hers to rove about the room. "My sister will live," she answered indirectly. "Though we can only guess at the extent of… permanent damage, at this point. I suppose that's justice of a sort. My father… we don't know if he'll ever fully recover, either. Arthur has offered an escort of knights to return Morgause to the isle as soon as she can travel. I –" she glanced at Gwen with a momentary hesitation, "I will be staying here. I cannot go back with her, not after… all this. Arthur has you. And Merlin will be too busy to teach magic for quite some time. I suppose I will go back to being Camelot's princess for the rest of my life." The sarcastic tone and the toss of her head almost covered a _longing_ that Gwen only glimpsed.

"Perhaps you will marry," Gwen offered. As it was a subject much on her mind lately, she was ready to share the particular joy of a good match.

"Who would have me?" Morgana said cynically. "A princess with magic? And my father would not approve…" She paused.

Gwen understood immediately. If Arthur was regent… he'd allowed Morgana to attempt the healing of her sister, an obvious enemy of Camelot. He'd surely be liberal where his sister's heart and hand and future was concerned. "Perhaps you'll meet someone," she said generously. Someone who wouldn't mind the magic and would be respectful of but not overawed by the rank. Someone whose personality might complement the princess' reputed impetuosity and passion without trying to dominate her. Someone who Arthur would be glad to call brother…

"Perhaps," Morgana said, shrugging. "In the meantime, maybe you could tell me a little more about our other visitors from Lionys?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur hated to see his father like this. Curled on one side, small in his massive bed, childishly vulnerable. Careful of his broken rib, bandaged now thanks to Gaius' untiring ministrations, he leaned forward into his father's line of vision. Uther did not so much as blink; Arthur sighed. Their father hadn't reacted at all to Morgana's presence, either, her tears or her whispered apologies, the kiss she'd dropped on his lined face in farewell only moments earlier.

Gaius had said it would take time for the king to recover mentally. There was no simple magical remedy this time, it would be a gradual process, the physician had guessed, and might halt entirely at any point. Whether he would be capable of dressing himself, feeding himself, carrying on a conversation, comprehending a report or composing correspondence, attending meetings or holding audiences or making solid choices or wielding his own sword, remained to be seen.

"I'm not dead, Father," he said, very softly, but there was no answering focus in Uther's gray eyes. "Merlin defended me, saved my life. That report was false… Agravaine was mistaken." How much did he want to say aloud? How much would his father understand? "He paid for it with his life." Not a flicker of comprehension.

The remains of Lord de Bois would be interred at his estate. As he was family, Arthur would not treat him as a traitor deserved, stripping him of title and recognition of honor, even in death, denying him so much as a marked grave or honorary pyre. But because he _was_ a traitor, he would not be given any ceremony whatsoever, his body simply shut away in the crypts, the date recorded dispassionately.

"There isn't a de Bois heir," he added. "I've considered granting his estate to Sir Leon – only, as he's marrying Elena, he'll be heir to Godwyn's estate already. Maybe Sir Lancelot then – he's Lord de Gransse's captain of the guard –" Arthur choked on the impulse to say, _you'll like him when you meet him_, and when he blinked, a tear escaped his eye. "I know you always told me, no man is worth your tears," he whispered, wiping it away with the cuff of his sleeve. _But maybe a father is?_

When he left Camelot, he didn't think he was ready to marry. And now – he didn't think he was ready for this, either. _You can do it_, Merlin had said, _you have your knights, your queen…_ Kilgarrah had told him, _Trust those who gather around you now, include them in your rule, and it will be strengthened beyond compare_…

On the bed beside him, his father rolled a few inches from his side toward his back, his gaze traveling up Arthur's bandaged left arm to his face. And though Uther still looked haggard and haunted and old, there was recognition there. Faint and faraway and unsurprised, as if the father believed the son a shadow or ghost.

"I'm sorry," Uther whispered, and the words held the weight of years, referring to – what? Anything said or done he now regretted. However much of the current situation he understood – or misunderstood.

Arthur eased from the chair to kneel by the bed, and put his hand on his father's shoulder, his forearm resting on Uther's arm, almost an embrace. "You're safe now, Father," he said softly. "I'm home. No more nightmares."

Uther held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded like a child, as Arthur had done long ago, reassured there were no monsters in the wardrobe. Then the old king closed his eyes.

He remained in Uther's bedchamber another half of an hour, but the invalid never roused again. And there were things he needed to see to – the council meeting to officially acknowledge Morgana's abdication, to wrangle the legal course of transferring power. Though he'd prefer not to take the regency yet…

Perhaps, it had been delicately proposed, Arthur wished the council to approve his regency? For the good of the kingdom, of course.

Perhaps, he allowed, in the private core of his mind. But not right away. The citizens of Camelot would not be reassured by so many changes in so short a time. He needed time. Uther needed time. And the people… But if the council would not rescind its vote to replace an incapable King Uther, there would be no other choice.

And there was the matter of the mercenaries contracted by Agravaine. Morgana had advocated a forcible removal of the hired troops. Arthur had decided it would be far more sensible under the circumstances simply to pay and dismiss them, advising them to seek employment outside Camelot's borders.

And of course there was the cleaning and reorganization of the citadel to see to… his new knights, and his guests.

He closed his father's door behind him, and turned to see Merlin leaning against the corridor wall, waiting for him. The younger man straightened as Arthur jerked his head in invitation, and they ambled slowly down the hall.

"How's your father?" Merlin said.

Arthur didn't lift his gaze from the toes of his boots. "I don't know," he said honestly. "All this…" He sensed rather than saw Merlin's nod of understanding.

"Perhaps we're heading for a new time," the young sorcerer suggested, softly and seriously.

Not like the few council members had done, worried for their own concerns within a kingdom whose leadership was in question. And not as though he'd spent one moment considering what Arthur's change in status and role and authority might mean for him, for good or ill. But as though he fully comprehended the weight of duty Arthur felt, the doubts he tried never to reveal.

"You may need to take charge, become…" Merlin hesitated, looking at him with pride tempered by concern. "Become king," he finished.

Arthur remembered when it had felt an undeserved responsibility and an unbearable burden, to contemplate becoming a prince. Much to accomplish, establishing Camelot, balancing the magic both present and returning, building alliances toward a golden age of peace for all of Albion…

Keep the hope, await the king…

"Who knows what the future will bring," he said only.

Merlin's glint of encouragement brightened. He didn't have to say, _We'll do it together. _ He didn't have to say, _I'll go with you_.

"But you," Arthur added, "what are you doing out of the infirmary? Does Gaius know where you are?"

Merlin's smile became a bit impish. "Sort of," he allowed. "He sent me to get some supplies from his chambers."

Arthur stopped walking. "The king's quarters are not on the way from the infirmary to the physician's chamber," he said.

Merlin kept going, his lanky stride only slightly slower than normal. "I know," he returned with a grin, and disappeared around another corner.

He inhaled, then let it out slowly. Perhaps he still felt unready and undeserving, but Merlin's trust and faith – _I believe in you, sire, I always have_ – held him up. Gave him strength to try to deserve it.

Arthur found the door to his chamber open, and heard someone within, before his eyes fell on Guinevere, bending to lift a chair to an upright position, next to the table.

"You don't have to –" he began.

"Don't even say it," she told him, her cheerfulness taking any sting out of her words, and instead making it seem a pleasure to be scolded or commanded by her. "I've already heard it from your sister and at least a dozen scandalized servants." Her hair had been braided down her back, but soft curly tendrils had already escaped around her face. She'd removed her knee-length fur-lined tunic, and worked in dark trousers and her creamy embroidered blouse, belted at her waist.

He marveled at his incredible good fortune, to have found such a woman – a lady with character and grace and humility – so quickly. That he had not had to endure months of polite tolerance of giggling and small-minded self-centered chatter before finally having to choose the least offensive mate. He moved closer to her and reached out to smooth one unruly curl back from her temple.

She added, a little breathlessly, "It will take some time."

He didn't know what she was referring to – the re-organization of his room, his life, the palace, of the kingdom… their relationship? He opted to assume the simplest explanation, glancing about the room and saying lightly, "Merlin can take care of it. One glance, or a wave of his hand…"

She tried to give him a reproachful look, but her amusement at his joke at the young sorcerer's expense showed through anyway.

Arthur's realization in that moment was like a drop of water onto the still surface of his heart, noninvasive and cooling, the ripples soothing what they disturbed.

He loved her.

Yes, she would be a good queen, skilled in administration and not lacking in care for the people. Yes, she would fit very well into life in Camelot, friends already with Leon and Merlin – understanding and valuing them, and he had no doubt it would be the same with Gaius, with Morgana, with Uther.

But he had to say with Tristan, if he lost every last one of his worldly goods, still he'd be a rich man if he had his Guinevere.

"I don't ever want to lose you," he said, and the surprise in her eyes made him realize how abrupt his words must have sounded. Well, her father had advised him to wait until the investigation into the assassination was concluded; as far as he was concerned, he'd done so. He reached to take her hand, roughened by haphazard living the last week, small and brown and perfect, and cradled it against his heart. "Will you marry me?" he said simply.

For a moment she only stared at him – a chill of uncertainty brushed his heart – and then she smiled, so happily her dark eyes shone and a rare dimple appeared. "Yes," she said, and it was the best word he'd ever heard. "Yes, with all my heart."

He slipped his right hand under her elbow to rest it against the small of her back and drew her to him, lowering his head to kiss her. She returned it without hesitation, taking her hand away from his to slide both up his shoulders, around his neck. He kissed her again and again, gathering her carefully close – he could squeeze her harder later, when his ribs and his arm had healed. She felt so warm and so soft and so real against him, he decided he was never going to let her go.

She laughed breathlessly against the side of his neck, sending cool little shivers into the core of his being, to rebound in faster fierier sparks spreading outward. "The room won't clean itself," she whispered, pulling away.

And he let her go.

_But_, he told himself – feeling a grin that Merlin would mock, and he wouldn't even care – _not for very long_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya felt warm and cozy and lethargic, waking up. There was silence, and peace, and sunshine, she felt, waiting for her when she opened her eyes, but still she delayed. She could smell him, still, as she could when she'd relaxed into the bed sometime in the small hours of the morning. Like pine, and magic. If magic had a smell. She cuddled into the blanket, scrunching the pillow to provide greater padding for her head.

She hoped that a few hours' sleep would do Merlin good, even though it wasn't in his own bed, in his own humble corner of a room. Pale and vague with exhaustion, he'd crawled onto the first cot in the infirmary he'd seen and fallen asleep immediately, both feet and one arm hanging over its edges, his head half-off the pillow.

The prince had exchanged a worried look with the court physician, a stoop-shouldered old man with a long blue robe and a brusque manner that she found strangely comforting. He was wise and he was caring, she could see, and rather appreciated his no-nonsense orders for the care of his patients.

Everyone else, she noticed, for the first hour when things were still rather hectic, had done the same thing. Glance at the young sorcerer absolutely motionless on the cot, then met each other's eyes for comfort. Gaius had left Merlin to himself, after a cursory inspection for pulse and temperature, which might have been more reassuring if he hadn't himself stopped to look over at his apprentice half a dozen times.

_How many did he transport from the cave?_ the old physician had asked her. Twice, as though she might have been mistaken the first time. _Three of us_, she answered. _And the last of the Medhiri, evidently_. Gaius had stared at her, then shuddered. Then checked his unconscious apprentice one more time.

And the high priestess had been placed as remote from the group of recovering fighters as possible, shielded from sight with a screen. Only the Lady Morgana and the physician had ventured behind it. No one asked, but after Arthur had spoken privately to both of them, Freya had overheard a murmur that Morgause would live. Whether she would be mentally diminished or ever fully recover could not be known.

Freya rolled to her back and blinked at the warm dusty golden glow of the room, thinking of how she'd imagined Merlin's life in Camelot to be. And what he'd told her of the reality – _I sleep in a storeroom._ Humble, indeed. She rather agreed with Arthur that it might have been better for everyone – even Morgana – had the blonde sorceress died instantly. But watching the gentle, even rise and fall of Merlin's worn brown jacket on the cot in the infirmary, remembering the melancholy and despair he felt even to kill the Collins', she was relieved for his sake that he need not wake to consider himself accountable for one more death.

A wisp of movement at the window caught her attention, and she decided she had the energy after all to move from his bed to greet the day. Barefoot, she moved to the window, leaning on the narrow table – but the window was small, and high, and she couldn't see much through it.

So it was that when she heard the sound of the door open, she had to duck out of the window opening, and he caught her standing on his table. She watched him turn from an instinctive glance at the bed – and maybe surprised that it was empty – and couldn't help smiling at the way his eyes and smile lighted to see her. He was looking much better.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"Thank you for letting me use your room," she said, by way of permission. "Gaius told me it would be all right?"

He shrugged, crossing the room in a few long, lazy strides. "It's fine; he told me you'd be here. I was worried I'd wake you."

"No, I was admiring your view," she told him, gesturing out the window. "Camelot looks incredible from here."

"It's your home now, too," he said lightly, and her heart skipped a beat. Until he added, "Gwaine being one of Camelot's finest now, I mean."

"Yes," she said, dropping her gaze away from the amazingly intense blue of his. "I suppose so." She stepped to the edge of the table, preparing to drop back down to the floor, and he moved forward, his hands reaching for her. Then she met his eyes, feeling a faint flush of surprise, and an inexplicable hesitation. "I saw Aithusa also, flying, a good ways away, but… How does your back feel this morning?" she asked.

An innocent smile didn't quite cover his initial startled reaction. "My back is fine," he said, as if it had been fine all along.

She remembered the prince saying, _No I'm fine – see?_ showing his unmarked palm.

"I was right next to you, Merlin," she reminded him softly. "When Aithusa healed Isolde, I _felt_ it. But it wasn't just Isolde, was it?"

Merlin's smile twisted wryly. "I didn't ask him to," he said only.

She remembered how he'd responded to Morgana's plea that he heal her sister_, I can't_. And then later, aware that Morgana had attempted the healing spell herself, with only moderate success, she wondered aloud, "Could Aithusa have healed Morgause?"

He looked past her out the window. "Dragons don't really… forgive," he said. "He could have, but he only would have if… I'd ordered him."

Freya thought she understood. It was much the same as Arthur and Merlin making the decision. The prince would not order his sorcerer's magic to perform or to withhold against his conscience, valuing the relationship more than the result. Merlin reached up for her again, and she leaned down to place her hands on his shoulders.

He caught her waist as she hopped lightly to lower her to the floor.

"I'm meant to be fetching things for Gaius," he confessed, and she noticed that the tips of his ears were red. She realized he hadn't let go of her waist yet; _he_ didn't seem to realize it, though. "They're bringing food to the infirmary, if you want breakfast – I'll walk back with you. Or do you want to wash up first?"

Then she realized something else. Oh, for goodness sake. Well, she didn't know why it mattered, anymore, him seeing her in just a shift. She pulled away gently, hurried back to the dress she'd left folded over the bedside table. "I have something for you." She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out the small gray pebble; he smiled as she returned to his side.

"Don't you want to keep it?" he asked her.

"Hasn't the spell worn off?" she said, surprised. "I mean, it will eventually, won't it? And if I'm to live in Camelot anyway, I could just take an extra quarter-hour to come up here and find you if I wanted to talk."

The blue of his eyes was bright. He took the pebble in his own palm, and blue flared briefly to gold before he handed it back. "There," he said, satisfied. She breathed a sigh of relief as well, seeing the evidence of comfortable performance of magic again. Then he added, "Now it'll last forever."

"Forever?" she echoed, stunned.

"Yep. Wherever you are, I'll be able to hear you."

Forever. She smiled down at the stone he tipped into her hand. _Sooner or later_, Gwen had said.

"Merlin Emrys," she said softly, and his smile was so boyishly pleased she couldn't help looking quite obviously at his mouth for a moment. Or for a year.

_Forever, maybe_? a little voice that sounded a lot like Isolde murmured. Freya blushed and looked down again.

"I'll wait for you just outside," he told her, going to the door and giving her another bright smile before closing her inside his bedroom again.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was quiet in the physician's chambers, the sounds Freya made in the back bedroom somehow relaxing. Merlin seated himself on the middle stair going down into the main chamber for a moment just to breathe in the scents, the atmosphere, and feel the peace, so unlike the last two times he was here. Quiet then, too, but the tension of threat and danger so unsettling. Sunlight came in the open shutter, its rays touching the rough wooden tabletop.

There really was no rush with his errand. He'd been asleep almost before he was able to sprawl across the cot he'd chosen because it was closest to the infirmary door. When he woke that morning, he'd learned that Gaius had already stitched the long but shallow slash across Lancelot's back as well as the wounds in Arthur's arm and Elyan's in the infirmary. That Percival had been sent to the kitchen, that Arthur hadn't slept long before leaving again. That Tristan, Leon, and Gwaine had been kept awake for observation, until Gaius proclaimed them free of conditions worse than headaches. The three and Elyan had all been snoring in their own cots when he'd left.

Merlin smiled, listening to Freya hum a snatch of song, exclaim in soft annoyance at some detail of dress or preparation she found uncooperative. She'd volunteered herself by her actions as Gaius' assistant, last night in the infirmary; he wasn't sure how long she'd stayed.

And this morning, he'd arrived before she'd woken up, listening at the door for several moments. He wished to check on her without disturbing her, if she was sleeping or… if she was not. He heard nothing, and eased the door open.

The shutter on his window had been open as well, and the morning light spilled across the room, not quite touching the foot of the bed. His bed, where she slept on her side, her dark hair a curly tangle across his pillow. She looked peaceful as well, and he'd smiled to himself as he drifted to the foot of the bed to watch her breathe for a moment, his blanket tucked up under her chin, her arm bare to the shoulder so that he'd almost reached out to draw the back of one finger along her skin. Before she'd drawn in a deep breath and shifted, beginning to wake up, and he'd retreated so he wouldn't alarm or offend her. He'd taken his time gathering what he needed into a bundle on the work-table as quietly as he was able, before attempting to enter the room again.

To find her standing on the table and looking out the window. He'd very nearly said, teasingly, _Oy, didn't your mother teach you about standing on the furniture_? Except that she'd been in her thin white undergarment again…

The protecting feeling wasn't new to him. Since he was a child, learning from the druids that caring for someone or about something meant you protected them or it, with your life or with your magic. His mother, his camp, his people. He'd gone to Dinas Emrys to protect other young druids from the blood ritual.

And then Arthur – always Arthur. By extension, Arthur's family, Arthur's knights, Arthur's Camelot.

But there was something new he felt when he looked at Freya. Possessiveness entered and mingled with the protectiveness. It was more than wanting her to be happy; he wanted to be actively involved in making that happen, as often as possible.

She was special, unique. And yet seemed to view herself as unimportantly ordinary. He shook his head, still couldn't understand that.

Thinking of Freya made him think of Gwen. He was glad of her, glad for Arthur. His prince needed a lady like that, he felt, now more than ever. Arthur's life would be changing kind of a lot, he suspected. And his, Merlin's, not so much. He was always willing to give, to help, good with the magic and the crisis and maybe advice once in a while. But he guessed that Arthur would need someone sympathetic and feminine, with whom he would feel comfortable unburdening himself at the end of the day, to a depth that he himself could not share for his prince.

Someone he could trust with his vulnerability and weakness and pain…

Merlin remembered sitting on the parapet of Freya's house in Lionys, trying to prepare himself to accept the end of his life, to summon the courage to leave the city and everyone he cared about behind, to order the dragon to destroy him, cursed as he was, before he could do something unforgiveable. She had come to sit beside him, to listen, to comfort in silence, a companion who could come closer than just a friend. He remembered how it felt to kneel over her as she clung to him and wept out her fright and relief, both, there in that first alley, baring both pain and strength in a rare show of trust.

He realized that the sounds in his bedroom had stilled, and turned to see her standing in the open door, braiding her hair over her shoulder, looking down at him with a whimsical expression.

"Ready, then?" he asked, pushing himself to his feet.

"Thank you again for letting me use your room. I suppose Gwaine and I will have to find some place to live," she said, coming down the stairs behind him. "Someplace with a garden, I hope."

He gave her a grin of pure happiness over his shoulder as he headed for the work-table. "And Gaius will send me to collect motherwort and sorrel and chamomile and mint, and I'll come to get them from you instead of wandering the woods alone." He lagged a few steps, and as she stepped beside him, he took her hand playfully.

"We could wander the woods to-" She stopped, dropping her eyes in embarrassed confusion.

"Together?" he finished her word enthusiastically. "I haven't forgotten my promise to show you where to find rosemary and bluebell and hawthorne. We just – have lots more time now." She drifted closer to rest against him absently, fingering the material of his shirt. He couldn't help envisioning leisurely walks, working companionably to uproot the plants she wanted, pack them carefully in order to transplant them. "If you still want to," he added.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked.

"You're practically a lady now," he reminded her, and at her arched eyebrow he clarified, "I mean, the sister of a knight. Perhaps it would be beneath you to be seen with me." Mostly teasing. Hoping to be contradicted. _Please, don't change_? She leaned back in his arms – and when had he put them around her? he didn't remember doing it.

"Almost you offend me, Merlin," she said. "Don't you know me better than that?"

"Do I?" he said softly.

For a moment, it seemed to him that her eyes dropped to his mouth, and he had a ridiculous urge to lick his lips, because suddenly it mattered if they were dry or rough. And before he knew he intended to, he was looking at her mouth, how her lips curved into a smile so sweet, he wanted to feel them against his own, and perhaps even taste…

He looked into her fathomless dark eyes again, wondering how to word such a request without making her laugh or slap him, and her fingers were bunching the material of his shirt and her chin was lifting and then he was bending down to her.

Freya smelled wonderful and tasted even better. And in the tentative curious darkness when she responded, shifted to kiss his bottom lip and his top lip separately, he felt her fingers slide into his hair below and behind his ear. His magic stirred within him, and he felt an echo of hers, a spark of brightness and hope in the vast unknown. Memory nudged him, as though he was more familiar with her mouth than he was consciously aware… but it was lost in the moment.

He pulled her closer, tighter, and she felt like heaven against him, like they were breathing together and their hearts were beating in tandem and her cheek fit smooth and soft and perfectly into the palm of his hand. She sighed as he allowed her to complete the kiss, and the upward sweep of her eyelashes as she looked into his eyes from only inches away almost knocked him off his feet.

"I don't think any slapping will be necessary," she told him, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

He didn't understand, but it didn't matter. "No, ma'am," he said. And couldn't help placing one more quick light kiss on her sweetly-curved mouth.

…..*….. …..*….. Six Months Later …..*….. …..*…..

There were butterflies in Gwen's stomach. She couldn't sit still. _Well, stand then_, Enid had allowed. The taller girl could still reach to threat the slender stems of the tiny white flowers through Gwen's black curls. And the long train of the gorgeous purple satin dress kept Gwen from pacing.

"Are you ready?" her maid said sympathetically.

"I don't know," she said blankly, suddenly afraid to look in the mirror. Who would she see? "Am I ready?"

Enid gave her an understanding smile, drawing her to the door. "Freya said almost everyone was assembled in the hall, and that was nearly a quarter-hour ago. Lord Lionel and Sir Elyan are in the corridor, waiting to accompany you."

"Where will you be?" Gwen asked, delaying a moment longer. Not ready to be at the center of so much attention all at once. "If I get nervous, I'll look at you and then –"

"If you get nervous, look for Isolde," Enid advised. "She's wearing a dress today – you won't be able to help smiling."

Gwen felt a nervous giggle try to rise in her throat at the odd picture the words _Isolde_ and _dress_ in the same sentence conjured in her mind. No, that wouldn't help – she couldn't be hysterical, after all, but calm. "But where will you be?"

"Front row," Enid promised, reaching to adjust one tiny flower over Gwen's right temple minutely. "I told Gwaine I'd stand by him. But you won't get nervous."

_Won't I? Already am_. "You watch out for Gwaine," she told her maid. "I've heard stories…"

Enid only smiled serenely. "The reputation is useful for discouraging the sort of girls he's not interested in," she told Gwen. "The ones with matrimonially-minded mothers. But he can be serious, and sweet – just ask Freya sometime."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Gwen said, as her maid opened the door.

"You'll be fine; I'll see you later," Enid said, giving her a proper curtsy and backing away, before leaving her to her father and brother.

"You're so beautiful," Lord Lionel murmured, kissing her cheek. "I wish your mother was here; she'd be so proud of you."

"Thank you," she whispered, blinking back tears. It helped to turn to Elyan, who shrugged a bit self-consciously.

"Better you than me," he said.

It was a relief to laugh, as her father tucked her hand into his elbow with a benign glare for Elyan, and began to lead her toward the great hall. "You mean, marrying Arthur?" she teased her brother over her shoulder.

"Marrying anyone at all," he said, with a doubtful grimace.

Lord Lionel was unperturbed. "It'll be your turn, someday, Elyan."

Before she was ready, they were at the double doors, flanked by two crimson-clad guards-of-honor. She took a deep breath to compose herself as they pushed the doors open with reverential decorum.

It was packed with people, all turned to stare at her.

The butterflies became hummingbirds.

"We're just behind you," her father said softly. "All the way, Guinevere."

She focused on the warm glow of polish on the wooden floorboards as she stepped forward, the gleam of the new window shedding rainbow light over the guests in the hall, the trumpet fanfare from the gallery announcing her progress. She was sure she was going to trip over her own shoes, or the train of the purple dress, or faint, or –

Why on earth had she thought herself capable of marriage, much less the responsibility of committing to a kingdom? And one day to be queen? Why hadn't someone shaken her awake before now? Perhaps she should turn and flee – so many strangers –

She lifted her eyes to the dais. Geoffrey of Monmouth was central, happily officious in his patient waiting for her arrival. Behind him were two thrones, ornately but elegantly carved, comfortably padded. Waiting also – and one for _her_. Ye gods, someone had made a mistake somewhere…

Two more thrones, placed to the sides and a pace or two back from the others. One for the Princess Morgana – beautiful in a green gown that Gwen knew would complement her eyes, her black waves of hair sleek under a royal circlet for the occasion, smiling contented encouragement to her, turning the smile on someone else in the front row of the audience. The sister she never had, maybe, and Gwen was glad to take a sister's place with the princess. In the other sat the king, dressed in reserved black-and-charcoal, one medallion hung around his neck, smiling also, but rather vacantly, remaining comfortably in the background.

It worked for several steps to concentrate on her father-in-law-to-be. He'd improved a great deal in the past months, and needed only two servants now. He was able to care for himself, hold a conversation, delighted to remember her from one visit to the next, but lived, Gwen privately thought, in a world of the senses, rather than the mind. Enjoying the sights and sounds and tastes of the world around him, without any desire to engage in his role – he would not be bothered with choices or decisions or meetings at all. Gwen thought that it suited Arthur now, after he'd grown accustomed to the changes in his father. As Prince Regent, he held full ruling authority, but in her opinion, it was a consolation to him to think he _could_ depend on his father the king if absolutely necessary, he only chose not to. Gradually he would come to depend on the men around him, and gradually each would be at ease with as well as honored by the arrangement.

As he'd depend on her, maybe, ask her questions, expect… expect an heir. And oh, what if she disappointed him? He never doubted his choice of her, and she thought he would never voice his disappointment, but what if…

The hummingbirds were acting more like bats now. And perfect, if she was sick all over the polished floor and the beautiful gown and why the hell was this room so _long_?

Then she saw him.

At the foot of the stair of the dais, to the side of Geoffrey, dressed in full ceremonial finery – chainmail, flowing crimson cloak embroidered with the gold rampant dragon of Camelot – a fringe of his light hair falling over the prince's circlet on his head. The one ring on his finger the only other ornament he wore. He looked serious, solemn, nervous.

She longed to be at his side already, to smile the worry from his eyes – and then he saw her. The grin that spread across his face was uninhibited and beautiful and it made her feel beautiful and confident. He loved her, and she loved him. She trusted him, and he'd chosen her. And right now, nothing else mattered.

Gwen floated the last few yards to the stairs, and took the hand he offered to steady her. He didn't let go.

Geoffrey began the ceremony, "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen of Camelot and Lionys, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Arthur Pendragon and Lady Guinevere de Gransse." The blue of Arthur's eyes was perfect, and she had never felt so calm or so sure in all her life. Eager, almost. "Is it your wish, Prince Arthur, to become one with this woman?"

"It is," he said, and she could see that he was fighting the same sort of deep inner joy that she felt, to retain the gravitas necessary to the occasion.

"Is it your wish, Lady Guinevere, to become one with this man?"

For one second she remembered everything that _becoming one_ entailed, and felt a flush sweep through her. One steadying breath, and she said firmly, "It is."

Arthur lifted their joined hands so that Geoffrey could begin to twine a length of flowering ivy around them. "With this garland, I do tie a knot, and by doing so, bind your hands and your hearts for all eternity."

Eternity. She quailed, briefly, watching the greenery hide her hand, and his. That was a long time. What if he changed his mind? Grew tired of her, bored of her, met someone else? What if she could not give him a son to raise to the throne?

His fingers pressed hers, and he said quietly, "I, Arthur Pendragon… I shall not seek to change thee in any way." His words were not repeated by rote, but spoken from the heart, and for her ears alone. "I shall respect thee, as I respect myself…"

She spoke before Geoffey could prompt her, answering the prince's promise. Doubts didn't matter. No one could know the future, or the heart of any other person – but she knew her heart. "I shall not seek to change thee in any way, I shall respect thee as I respect myself."

Geoffrey said, "I now pronounce you to be husband and wife."

Briefly she marveled, _that was easy. Why was I so nervous?_ Then Arthur took her hand and turned her to face the crowd, and her heart lurched with uncertainty again. _Crowd_. And _kingdom_. So many people looking at her with such expectation.

Until she looked at the front row of guests.

Sir Leon and his own new bride, the charmingly unpolished Elena, her blonde hair a curly cloud around her head, beaming sunshine and joy and newlywed bliss on everyone around. Beside them, also hand in hand, the still-cynical Sir Tristan with his lady, her blonde braid still over one shoulder, her arch smile in place. Then Sir Lancelot, back from his estate on the western border, guarding Camelot from Odin, as perfectly beautiful and proper as he ever was – and looking right past her, as he always had. At a certain green-eyed princess, Gwen thought, with amusement and no jealousy. Then Percival, blocking the view for those behind him and grinning like a schoolboy. Gwaine – and Enid, as she'd said, the knight leaning over to whisper into the maid's ear. At least he wasn't whooping or whistling – and Enid blushed, giving him a smile that was closer to a grin than the calm-natured girl had worn within Gwen's memory.

Then Merlin and Freya. And she couldn't help smiling at the two. It wouldn't be long, she thought, before she and Arthur were applauding for them. They were so in love, a love uncomplicated and sweet and generous, yet still so calm and patient and _sure_. She and Arthur had discussed accompanying the young sorcerer on his annual later-autumn visit to his mother in Ealdor, but Gwen expected that Freya would be going with Merlin this year, and so perhaps she and Arthur would wait til another time.

To the other side, her father and Elyan standing a few paces out from the crowd, respectfully separate, as befit their rank. Her father hadn't minded – much – hearing of Elyan's joining Arthur's campaign to retake Camelot, and his wounding. She thought he considered it useful experience, and perhaps even approved of Elyan's increased confidence and directness in the administration of Lionys as well.

As the applause swelled, she felt Arthur tug on her hand, and glanced to see him smiling at her, turning to her as she to him, reaching to draw her into his arms, bending unhesitatingly for a kiss as she unreservedly lifted her mouth to meet his.

And what pleasure there was in kissing someone who enjoyed kissing her, too. There was love and longing and teasing there, in the way his lips moved on hers. And promise.

This is only the beginning, after all.

…..*…..

**A/N: So there you have it! Hope you all have enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed telling the story… Thanks to everyone who was supportive, in every way!**

**November is almost over, and I've crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line! 50 thousand words. But the story i'm telling is only about 1/3 finished. So. I have an idea for this Merlin A/U, to jump about 10 years into the future when they're all married with young families, but the Saxons start to invade (deal with Morgause, bring Cenred back into it, maybe the druids, Aithusa's destiny to fight the Saxons, maybe even Alator and Finna and that prophecy)... but I won't start any new Merlin stories until after my NaNo original story is finished. Which may not be until spring. If/when I do this, I'll add the first chapter of that one here, so everyone who's following can get that notification…**

**In the meantime, I'm probably going to start a different Merlin story arc, **_**way**_** A/U, adapted from an original I wrote years ago... in a few days…**

**And… Some dialogue from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." **


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